BANCROFT 
LIBRARY 

•0- 

THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 


A    PUEBLO    GIBL    SELLING    CLAY    IMAGES 
(From  a  sketch  by  Gen.  Wallace. ) 


THE  LAND  OF  THE 
PUEBLOS. 


SUSAN-Er  WALLACE. 
// 

Author  of  "  The  Storied  Sea,"  '«  Ginevra,"  etc. 


WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


NEW  YORK: 

JOHN  B.  ALDEN,  PUBLISHER 

1888. 


F 

w 


Copyright,  1888, 

BV 

THE  PROVIDENT  BOOK  COMPANY. 


<r  .* '  4  a* 

BANCROFT 
LIBRARY 


THE  LAND  OF  THE  PUEBLOS. 


CONTENTS. 


Introduction.   -  5 

I.  The  Journey.  -  7 

II.  Historic.  14 

III.  Laws  and  Customs.  37 

IY.  The  City  of  the  Pueblos.  58 

Y.  Mexican  Cottages.  62 

VI.  To  the  Turquois  Mines.  69 

VII.  To  the  Turquois  Mines,  continued.     80 

VIII.  To  the  Turquois  Mines,  continued.     93 

IX.  To  the  Turquois  Mines,  continued.   101 

X.  Among     the     Archives. —  Things 

New  and  Old.  108 

XI.  Among  the   Archives. — A   Love 

Letter.  114 

XII.  Among  the  Archives,  continued.     121 

XIII.  Among  the  Archives,  continued.     127 

XIV.  Among  the  Archives,  continued.     134 
XV.  The  Jornada  Del  Muerto.    -  140 

XVI.  Something  about  the  Apache.          152 

XVII.  Old  Miners.  160 

XVIII.  The  New  Miners.  -      167 

XIX.  The  Honest  Miner.  175 

XX.  The  Assayers.    -  -      180 

XXI.  The  Kuby  Silver  Mine.— A  True 

Story.   *  -      188 

XXII.  The  Kuby  Silver  Mine,  continued.  196 

XXIII.  Mine  Experience.  203 

XXIV.  The  Ruins  of  Montezuma's  Palace.  218 
XXV.  To  the  Casas  Grandes.  -  -      234 

XXVI.  A  Frontier  Idyl.      -  248 

XXVII.  The  Pimos.        -  -  -      261 


LIST  OF  ILLTJSTKATIOlSrS. 


A  Pueblo  Girl  Selling  Clay  Images,  Frontispiece 

El  Palacio,  Santa  Fe,  -        14 

Living  Pueblo  (New  Mexico),       -  44 

Zuni  War  Club,  Dance  Ornaments,  etc.,     -  46 

Zuni  Basketry,  and  Toy  Cradles,  130 

Zuni  Water  Vases,      -  -      132 

Navajo  Indian,  with  Silver  Ornaments,  154 

Zuni  Effigies,  •      200 

Tesuke  Water  Vases,        -  234 

Abandoned  Pueblo,     -  -      238 

Zuiii  Paint  and  Condiment  Cups,  244 

Pueblo  Wristlets,  Moccasins,  etc.,    -  -      246 


INTRODUCTION. 

SOME  years  ago  these  writings  appeared  in  the 
Independent,  Atlantic  Monthly,  and  The  Tribune. 
My  thanks  are  with  the  respective  editors  by 
whose  courtesy  they  assume  this  altered  shape. 
Several  were  published  in  a  certain  magazine 
which  died  young.  I  send  cordial  greeting  to  its 
chief,  and  shed  a  few  drops  of  ink  over  the  name- 
less one,  loved  of  the  gods.  Fain  would  I  believe 
no  action  of  mine  had  power  to  hasten  that  early 
and  untimely  end.  The  hurrying  march  in 
which  all  must  join,  is  so  rapid,  my  first  audience 
is  quite  out  of  hearing  ;  my  first  inklings  have 
faded  from  the  memory  of  readers  except  the 
one,  beloved  of  my  soul,  who  asks  why  the  old 
Pueblo  papers  have  not  been  reprinted.  Ah, 
what  exquisite  flattery ! 

And  just  here  I  kiss  the  fair  hands  unseen 
which  send  such  gracious  messages.  Dropping 
flowers  in  my  way,  pansies  for  thoughts,  rosemary 
for  remembrance,  has  made  them  the  whiter  and 
sweeter  forevermore. 

The  Montezuma  myth  is  so  interwoven  with 
the  past  and  future  of  the  Indians  that  every  allu- 
sion to  their  history  and  religion  must  of  neces- 
sity contain  the  revered  name.  The  repetition 
in  the  compositions  now  collected  did  not  appear 
so  glaringly  when  they  were  detached.  My  first 
impulse  was  to  omit  such  passages,  but  second 
thought  sends  out  the  letters  as  when  first  offered 
to  the  public,  with  all  their  imperfections  (a  good 
many),  on  their  head. 

It  would  be  affectation  to  make  secret  what 
every  writer  understands  :  (and  what  reader  have 
I  who  is  not  a  writer  ?)  the  pleasure  with  which 

5 


6  Introduction. 

I  gather  my  scattered  children  under  a  perma- 
nent cover.  Family  resemblance  is  strong 
enough  to  identify  them  anywhere,  but  that  is  no 
reason  why  they  should  not  appear  in  shape 
which  the  world  will  little  heed  nor  long  remem- 
ber. They  were  written  when  the  ancient  Palace 
I  have  tried  to  describe,  was  the  residence  of  the 
Governor  of  New  Mexico ;  and,  in  turning  the 
leaves  after  seven  years,  I  am  touched  by  the 
same  feeling  which  then  moved  me  to  pipe  my 
little  songs.  Again  I  feel  the  deep  solitude  of 
the  mountains,  taste  the  all  pervading  alkali  dust, 
and  hear  the  sand-storm  beating  like  sleet  against 
the  window  panes.  The  best  reward  they 
brought  were  friendly  voices  answering  in  the 
blue  distance  across  the  Sierras,  and  cheering  me 
with  thought  that  I  had  won  the  place  of  wel- 
come visitor  in  happy  homes  my  feet  may  never 
enter;  that  through  the  bitter  winter  my  room 
was  kept  by  warm  firesides  under  the  evening 
lamp — there  where  the  treasured  books  lie  from 
day  to  day,  looking  like  Elia's  old  familiar  faces. 
Dear  to  the  heart,  beautiful  and  forever  young, 
are  the  unseen  friends  whose  presence  becomes 
an  abiding  consciousness  to  the  writer. 

CRAWFORDSVILLE,  Indiana,  March,  1888. 


THE  LAND  OF  THE  PUEBLOS. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE  JOURNEY. 

I  AM  6,000  feet  nearer  the  sky  than  you  are. 
Come  to  the  sweet  and  lonely  valley  in  the  West 
where,  free  from  care  and  toil,  the  weary  soul 
may  rest ;  where  there  are  neither  railroads,  manu- 
factures, nor  common  schools ;  and,  so  little  is 
expected  of  us  in  the  way  of  public  spirit,  we 
almost  venture  to  do  as  we  please,  and  forget  we 
should  vote,  and  see  to  it  that  the  Republic  does 
not  go  to  the  "demnition  bow-wows." 

Santa  Fe  is  precisely  what  the  ancient  Pueblos 
called  it — "  the  dancing -ground  of  the  sun."  The 
white  rays  quiver  like  light  on  restless  waters  or 
on  mirrors,  and  night  is  only  a  shaded  day.  In 
our  summer  camp  among  the  foothills  we  need 
no  tents.  It  is  glorious  with  stars  of  the  first 
magnitude,  that  hang  low  in  a  spotless  sky,  free 
from  fog,  mist,  or  even  dew ;  not  so  much  as  a  mote 
between  us  and  the  shining  floor  of  heaven. 

The  star-patterns  of  my  coverlet  are  older  than 
the  figures  which  delighted  our  grandmothers. 
They  come  out  not  one  by  one,  as  in  our  skies ; 
but  flash  suddenly  through  the  blue.  Day  and 
night  make  a  brief  parting.  The  short  twilight 
closes,  and  lo !  in  the  chambers  of  the  east  Orion, 
belted  with  jewels,  Arcturus  and  his  sons,  and 
even  the  dim  lost  Pleiad,  forgetting  the  ruins  of 
old  Troy,  brightens  again.  Wrapped  in  soft, 
furry  robes,  we  lie  on  the  quiet  bosom  of  Mother 
Earth  in  sleep,  dreamless  and  restful  as  the 
slumber  of  those  who  wake  in  Paradise.  I  can- 

7 


8  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

not  say,  with  the  enthusiastic  land-speculator: 
"  Ladies  and  gentlemen,  in  this  highly-favored  re- 
gion the  Moon  is  always  at  its  full."  But  her 
face  is  so  fair  and  bright  I  am  her  avowed  adorer, 
and  many  a  thousand  miles  from 

'  a '  the  steep  head  of  old  Latraos," 

she  stoops  above  the  sleeping  lover,  to  kiss  her 
sweetest. 

Old  travelers  tell  you  the  country  is  like  Pales- 
tine ;  but  it  is  like  nothing  outside  of  the  Gar- 
den eastward  in  Eden.  New  Mexico  is  a  slice  of 
old  Mexico  ;  that  is,  a  western  section  of  Spain. 
"  Who  knows  but  you  may  catch  sight  of  some 
of  your  castles  there  !  "  Such  was  the  invitation 
which  came  to  me  across  the  Rocky  Mountains. 
I  hearkened  to  the  voice  of  the  "  charmer,  charm- 
ing never  so  wisely,"  and,  "  fleeing  from  incessant 
life,"  started  on  a  journey  of  two  thousand  miles. 
It  was  in  the  mild  September,  and  the  Mississipi 
Valley  flamed  with  banners  crimson,  golden,  in 
which  Autumn  shrouded  the  faded  face  of  the 
dead  Summer. 

We  sped  through  Ohio,  land  of  lovely  women ; 
past  Peoria,  fair  Prairie  City,  the  smoke  of  whose 
twenty-three  distilleries  obscures  the  spires  of  her 
churches  beautiful  as  uplifted  hands  at  prayer  ; 
through  the  bridge  at  St.  Louis,  where  the  fairies 
and  giants  once  worked  together,  making  a  cross- 
ing over  the  great  Father  of  Waters;  on  we 
went,  journeying  by  night  and  by  day. 

Oh !  the  horror  of  the  chamber  of  torture 
known  to  the  hapless  victims  as  the  sleeping-car. 
The  gay  conductor,  in  gorgeous  uniform,  told  us, 
in  an  easy,  off-hand  manner,  a  man  had  been 
found  dead  in  one  of  the  top  berths  some  weeks 
before.  I'  only  wondered  any  who  ventured  there 
came  out  alive.  "  Each  in  his  narrow  cell  for- 
ever laid  "  went  through  my  mind  as  I  lay  down 


The  Journey.  9 

to  wakefulness  and  unrest  in  blankets  filled  with 
vermin  and  disease.  The  passengers  were  the 
same  you  always  journey  with  :  the  young  couple, 
tender  and  warm;  the  old  couple,  tough  and 
cool ;  laughing  girls,  in  fluffy  curls  and  blue  rib- 
bons, who  found  a  world  of  pleasure  in  pockets 
full  of  photographs ;  the  good  baby,  that  never 
cried,  and  the  bad  baby,  that  cried  at  nothing ; 
the  fussy  woman  everybody  hated,  who  counted 
her  bundles  every  half  hour,  wanted  the  window 
up,  and  no  sooner  was  it  raised  than  she  wanted 
it  down  again.  There,  too,  was  the  invalid  in 
every  train  on  the  Pacific  Road.  A  college  grad- 
uate of  last  year,  poor,  ambitious,  crowded  four 
years'  study  into  three,  broke  down,  and  now  the 
constant  cough  tells  the  rest  of  the  old  tale.  He 
was  attended  by  a  young  sister,  warm  and  rosy 
as  he  was  pallid  and  chill,  who  in  the  most  ap- 
pealing way  took  each  one  of  us  into  her  confi- 
dence, and  told  how  Rob  had  picked  up  every 
step  of  the  road  since  they  left  Sandusky.  When 
we  entered  the  wide,  monotonous  waste  between 
Missouri  and  Colorado,  how  the  brave  girl  would 
try  to  cheer  the  boy  with  riddles,  stories,  games, 
muffle  him  in  her  furs,  slap  his  cold  hands,  and 
lay  her  red,  ripe  cheek  to  his,  as  if  she  were 
hushing  a  baby.  In  the  drollest  way,  she  resist- 
ed the  blandishments  of  the  vegetable  ivory 
man,  the  stem-winder,  the  peanut  vender,  and 
with  tragic  gesture  waved  off  the  peddler  of  the 
"  Adventures  of  Sally  Maclntire,  who  was  Cap- 
tured by  the  Dacotahs.  A  Tale  of  Horror  and  of 
Blood!"  When  the  dazzling  conductor  illumi- 
nated the  passage  of  the  car  with  his  Kohinoor 
sleeve-buttons  and  evening-star  breastpin,  he 
would  stop  beside  the  sick  boy,  and  in  a  fresh, 
breezy  way  seemed  to  throw  out  a  morning 
atmosphere  of  bracing  air,  as  well  as  hopeful 
words.  "Now,"  he  would  say,  twirling  his 


IO  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

thumb  in  a  Pactolian  chain  which  streamed  across 
his  breast  and  emptied  into  and  overflowed  a 
watch-pocket  bulgy  with  poorly  hid  treasure — 
"  now  we  are  coming  to  a  place  fit  to  live  in. 
When  you  get  to  Pike's  Peak,  you  will  be  7,000 
feet  above  the  level  of  the  sea.  It's  like  breath- 
ing champagne.  You'll  come  up  like  a  cork ; 
keep  house  in  a  snug  cottage ;  go  home  in  the 
Spring  so  fat  you  can  hardly  see  out  of  your 
eyes."  Vain  words.  The  poor  boy  knew,  and 
we  knew,  he  was  fast  nearing  the  awful  shadow 
which  every  man  born  of  woman  must  enter 
alone.  The  mighty  hand  was  on  him.  He  was 
going  to  Colorado  Springs  only  to  die.  We 
parted  at  La  Junta,  crowding  the  windows,  gayly 
waving  good-byes.  I  can  never  forget  my  last 
sight  of  the  sweet  sister,  with  her  outspread 
shawl  sheltering  him  from  the  crisp  wind,  which 
blew  from  every  direction  at  once,  as  I  have  seen 
a  mother-bird  flutter  round  her  helpless  nestlings. 
The  good  baby  held  up  its  sooty,  chubby  hand 
saying,  "  ta,  ta,"  as  long  as  they  were  in  sight, 
and  the  mothers  smiled  tearfully  to  each  other 
when  a  rough  miner  from  the  Black  Hills  said, 
softly,  as  if  talking  to  himself:  "I  reckon,  if 
that  young  woman's  dress  was  unbuttoned,  wings 
would  fly  out." 

Five  hundred  miles  across  plains  level  as  the 
sea,  treeless,  waterless,  after  leaving  the  Arkan- 
sas River.  Part  of  our  road  lay  along  the  old 
California  trail,  the  weary,  weary  way  the  first 
gold-seekers  trod,  making  but  twenty  miles  a 
day.  Under  ceaseless  sunshine,  against  pitiless 
wind,  it  is  not  strange  that  years  afterward  their 
march  was  readily  tracked  by  graves,  not  always 
inviolate  from  the  prairie  wolf.  The  stiff  buffalo- 
grass  rose  behind  the  first  explorers,  and  even 
horses  and  cattle  left  no  trail.  They  took  their 
course  by  the  sun,  shooting  an  arrow  before 


The  Journey.  II 

them ;  before  reaching  the  first  arrow  they  shot 
another ;  and  in  this  manner  marched  the  entire 
route  up  to  the  place  where  they  found  water 
and  encamped. 

Occasionally  we  saw  a  herdsman's  hut  stand- 
ing in  the  level  expanse,  lonely  as  a  lighthouse; 
nothing  else  in  the  blank  and  dreary  desert  but 
the  railroad  track,  straight  as  a  rule,  narrow  as  a 
thread,  and  its  attendant  telegraph,  precious  in 
our  sight  as  a  string  of  Lothair  pearls.  Not  a 
stick  or  stone  in  a  hundred  miles.  Only  the  sky, 
and  the  earth,  clothed  with  low  grass  -like  moss, 
the  stiff  sage-brush,  and  a  vile  trailing  cactus, 
which  crawls  over  the  ground  like  hairy  green 
snakes.  To  be  left  in  such  a  spot  would  be  like 
seeing  the  ship  sail  off  leaving  us  afloat  in  fath- 
omless and  unknown  seas. 

After  a  day  seeming  long  as  many  a  month 
has,  the  fine  pure  air  of  Colorado  touched  with 
cooling  balm  our  tired,  dusty  faces  ;  and  against 
the  loveliest  sunset  sky,  in  a  heavenly  radiance, 
all  amber  and  carmine,  the  Spanish  peaks  majes- 
tically saluted  us. 

Oh  !  the  glory  of  that  sight !  Two  lone  sum- 
mits, remote,  inaccessible ;  the  snowy,  the  far-off 
mountains  of  poetry  and  picture.  Take  all  the 
songs  the  immortal  singers  have  sung  in  praise 
of  Alpine  heights  and  lay  them  at  their  feet ;  it 
yet  would  be  an  offering  unworthy  their  surpass- 
ing loveliness.  Now  we  lost  sight  of  them  ;  now 
they  came  again  ;  then  vanished  in  the  evening 
dusk,  dropped  down  from  Heaven  like  the  Baby- 
lonish curtain  of  purple  and  gold  which  veiled 
the  Holy  of  Holies  from  profane  eyes.  Fairest  of 
earthly  shows  that  have  blest  my  waking  vision, 
they  stand  alone  in  memory,  not  to  fade  from  it 
till  all  fades. 

At  Trinidad  we  left  the  luxury  of  steam,  and 
came  down  to  the  territorial  conveyance.  Tiiink, 


12  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

dear  reader,  of  two  days  and  a  night  on  a  buck- 
board — an  instrument  of  torture  deadly  as  was 
ever  used  in  the  days  of  Torquemada,  and  had 
anything  its  equal  been  resorted  to  then  there 
would  have  been  few  heretics. 

It  is  a  low-wheeled  affair  floored  with  slats, 
the  springs  under  the  seats  so  weak  that  at  the 
least  jolt  they  smite  together  with  a  horrible 
blow,  which  is  the  more  emphatic  when  over- 
loaded, as  when  we  crossed  the  line  which 
bounds  "  the  most  desirable  of  all  the  Territories." 
Our  night  was  without  a  stop,  except  to  change 
horses.  Jolt,  jolt ;  bang,  bang ;  cold  to  the  mar- 
row, though  huddled  under  buffalo  robes  and 
heavy  blankets.  How  welcome  the  warmth  of 
the  sun  on  our  stiffened  limbs ;  and  the  early 
breeze,  sweet  and  fresh  as  airs  across  Eden  when 
the  evening  and  the  morning  were  the  first  day! 
It  has  a  sustaining  quality  which  almost  serves 
for  food  and  sleep.  There  journeyed  with  us  in 
the  white  moonshine  spectres,  shadowy,  ghost- 
like. Now  the  sun  comes  up,  we  see  they  are 
kingly  mountains,  wrapped  in  robes  of  royal  pur- 
ple and  wearing  crowns  of  gold.  The  atmos- 
phere is  so  refined  and  clear,  they  appear  close 
beside  us;  but  the  driver  says  they  are  forty 
miles  away.  Noon  comes  on,  hot  and  still, with 
a  desert  scorch.  We  journey  over  a  road  sur- 
prisingly free  of  stones  ;  across  a  blank  and  col- 
orless plain,  bounded  by  mountain-walls  which 
stand  grim  and  stark  like  bastions  of  stone. 
Another  night  and  another  long  day.  The  driver 
is  not  on  his  high  horse  now.  He  has  no  funny 
stories  of  the  grizzly  and  cinnamon  bear,  which  he 
assures  us  can  climb  trees,  sticking  their  claws 
in  the  bark,  easily  as  the  telegraph-mender,  with 
clamps  on  his  feet,  goes  up  the  pole.  Along  the 
roadside  stretch  beautiful  park-like  intervales, 
studded  with  dwarf  pines,  that  appear  planted  at 
regular  distances. 


The  Journey.  13 

Will  the  day  never  end  ?  I  have  no  voice  nor 
spirit,  and  begin  to  think  the  wayside  crosses 
mark  graves  of  travelers,  murdered,  not  by  assas- 
sins, but  by  the  buckboard  ;  and  feebly  clutch  my 
fellow-sufferer,  and  shake  about  in  a  limp,  dis- 
tracted way,  pitying  myself,  as  though  I  were 
somebody  else.  I  can  hold  out  no  longer.  But 
wake  up !  Wake  up !  This  is  the  home-stretch. 
The  horses  know  it  and  dash  across  a  little 
brook  which  they  tell  me  is  the  Rio  Santa  Fe. 

Pleasant  the  sound  of  running  water;  tender 
the  light  of  the  evening  on  the  mountains  which 
encircle  the  ancient  capital  of  the  Pueblos.  As 
we  approach,  it  is  invested  with  indescribable 
romance,  the  poetic  glamor  which  hovers  about 
all  places  to  us  foreign,  new,  and  strange'.  We  go 
through  a  straggling  suburb  of  low,  dark  adobe 
houses.  How  comfortless  they  look  !  Two  Mex- 
icans are  jabbering  and  gesticulating,  evidently 
in  a  quarrel.  Swarthy  women,  with  dismal  old 
black  shawls  over  their  heads,  sit  in  the  porches. 
I  hear  the  "Maiden's  Prayer  "  thumped  on  a  poor 
piano.  How  foolish  in  me  to  think  that  I  could 
escape  the  sound  of  that  feeble  petition !  Lights 
stream  through  narrow  windows,  sunk  in  deep  case- 
ments, and  a  childish  voice,  strangely  at  variance 
with  the  words,  is  singing  "  Silver  Threads  among 
the  Gold "  to  the  twanging  of  a  weak  guitar. 
Softly  the  convent-bells  are  ringing  a  gracious 
welcome  to  the  worn-out  traveler.  The  narrow 
streets  are  scarcely  wide  enough  for  two  wagons 
to  pass.  The  mud  walls  are  high  and  dark. 
We  reach  the  open  Plaza.  Long  one-story  adobe 
houses  front  it  on  every  side.  And  this  is  the 
historic  city  !  Older  than  our  government,  older 
than  the  Spanish  Conquest,  it  looks  older  than 
the  hills  surrounding  it,  and  worn-out  besides. 
"  El  Fonda!"  shouts  the  driver,  as  we  stop  before 
the  hotel.  A  voice,  foreign  yet  familiar,  gayly 


14  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

answers:  "Ah!  Senora,  a  los  pieds  de  usted" 
At  last,  at  last,  I  am  not  of  this  time  nor  of 
this  continent;  but  away,  away  across  the  sea, 
in  the  land  of  dreams  and  visions,  "  renowned, 
romantic  Spain." 


CHAPTER  II. 

HISTORIC. 

I  USED  to  think  Fernandina  was  the  sleepiest 
place  in  the  world,  but  that  was  before  I  had  seen 
Santa  Fe.  The  drowsy  old  town,  lying  in  a 
sandy  valley  inclosed  on  three  sides  by  mountain 
walls,  is  built  of  adobes  laid  in  one-story  houses, 
and  resembles  an  extensive  brick-yard,  with 
scattered  sunburnt  kilns  ready  for  the  fire.  The 
approach  in  midwinter,  when  snow,  deep  on  the 
mountains,  rests  in  ragged  patches  on  the  red  soil 
of  New  Mexico,  is  to  the  last  degree  dishearten- 
ing to  the  traveler  entering  narrow  streets  which 
appear  mere  lanes.  Yet,  dirty  and  unkept, 
swarming  with  hungry  dogs,  it  has  the  charm  of 
foreign  flavor,  and,  like  San  Antonio,  retains 
some  portion  of  the  grace  which  long  lingers 
about,  if  indeed  it  ever  forsakes,  the  spot  where 
Spain  has  held  rule  for  centuries,  and  the  soft 
syllables  of  the  Spanish  tongue  are  yet  heard. 

It  was  a  primeval  stronghold  before  the  Span- 
ish conquest,  and  a  town  of  some  importance  to 
the  white  race  when  Pennsylvania  was  a  wilder- 
ness, and  the  first  Dutch  governor  was  slowly 
drilling  the  Knickerbocker  ancestry  in  the  diffi- 
cult evolution  of  marching  round  the  town  pump. 
Once  the  capital  and  centre  of  the  Pueblo  king- 


Historic.  15 

dom,  it  is  rich  in  historic  interest,  and  the 
archives  of  the  Territory,  kept,  or  rather  neg- 
lected, in  the  leaky  old  Palacio  del  Gobernador, 
where  I  write,  hold  treasure  well  worth  the  seek- 
ing of  student  and  antiquary.  The  building 
itself  has  a  history  full  of  pathos  and  stirring 
incident  as  the  ancient  fort  of  St.  Augustine,  and 
is  older  than  that  venerable  pile.  It  had  been 
the  palace  of  the  Pueblos  immemorially  before 
the  holy  name  Santa  Fe  was  given  in  baptism  of 
blood  by  the  Spanish  conquerors ;  palace  of  the 
Mexicans  after  they  broke  away  from  the  crown; 
and  palace  ever  since  its  occupation  by  El  Gringo. 
In  the  stormy  scenes  of  the  seventeenth  century 
it  withstood  several  sieges;  was  repeatedly  lost 
and  won,  as  the  white  man  or  the  red  held  the 
victory.  Who  shall  say  how  many  and  how  dark 
the  crimes  hidden  within  these  dreary  earthen 
walls  ? 

Hawthorne,  in  a  strain  of  tender  gayety, 
laments  the  lack  of  the  poetic  element  in  our 
dear  native  land,  where  there  is  no  shadow,  no 
mystery,  no  antiquity,  no  picturesque  and  gloomy 
wrong,  nor  anything  but  commonplace  prosperity 
in  broad  and  simple  daylight.  Here  is  every 
requisite  of  romance, — the  enchantment  of  dis- 
tance, the  charm  of  the  unknown, — and,  in 
shadowy  mists  of  more  than  three  hundred  years, 
imagination  may  flower  out  in  fancies  rich  and 
strange.  Many  a  picturesque  and  gloomy  wrong 
is  recorded  in  mouldy  chronicles,  of  the  fireside 
tragedies  enacted  when  a  peaceful,  simple  people 
were  driven  from  their  homes  by  the  Spaniard, 
made  ferocious  by  his  greed  of  gold  and  con- 
quest; and  the  cross  was  planted,  and  sweet 
hymns  to  Mary  and  her  Son  were  chanted  on 
hearths  slippery  with  the  blood  of  men  guilty 
only  of  the  sin  of  defending  them. 

Four  hundred  years  ago  the  Pueblo  Indians 


16  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

were  freeholders  of  the  vast  unmapped  domain 
lying  between  the  Rio  Pecos  and  the  Gila,  and 
their  separate  communities,  dense  and  self-sup- 
porting, were  dotted  over  the  fertile  valleys  of 
Utah  and  Colorado,  and  stretched  as  far  south  as 
Chihuahua,  Mexico.  Bounded  by  rigid  conserv- 
atism as  a  wall,  in  all  these  ages  they  have  under- 
gone slight  change  by  contact  with  the  white 
race,  and  are  yet  a  peculiar  people,  distinct  from 
the  other  aboriginal  tribes  of  this  continent  as 
the  Jews  are  from  the  other  races  in  Christendom. 
The  story  of  these  least  known  citizens  of  the 
United  States  takes  us  back  to  the  days  of 
Charles  V.  and  the  "spacious  times  of  great 
Elizabeth." 

About  the  year  1528  an  exploring  expedition 
set  out,  by  order  of  the  king  of  Spain,  from  San 
Domingo  to  invade  Florida,  a  name  then  loosely 
given  to  the  wide  area  between  the  bay  of  Fer- 
nandina  and  the  Mississippi  River.  It  was 
commanded  by  Pamfilo  de  Narvaez ;  the  same 
it  will  be  remembered,  who  had  been  sent  by  the 
jealous  governor  of  Cuba  to  capture  Cortez,  and 
who,  after  having  declared  him  an  outlaw,  was 
himself  easily  defeated.  His  troops  deserted  to 
the  victorious  banner,  and  when  brought  before 
the  man  he  had  promised  to  arrest,  Narvaez  said, 
"Esteem  yourself  fortunate,  Senor  Cortez,  that 
you  have  taken  me  prisoner."  The  conqueror 
replied,  with  proud  humility  and  with  truth,  "It 
is  the  least  of  the  things  I  have  done  in  Mexico." 

This  anecdote  illustrates  the  haughty  and 
defiant  spirit  of  the  general  who  sailed  for  battle 
gayly  as  to  a  regatta,  with  a  fleet  of  five  vessels 
and  about  six  hundred  men,  of  whom  eighty 
were  mounted.  He  carried  blood-hounds  to 
track  natives,  chains  and  branding-irons  for  cap- 
tives ;  was  clothed  with  full  powers  to  kill,  burn, 
plunder,  enslave;  and  was  appointed  governor 


Historic.  17 

over  all  the  country  he  might  reduce  to  posses- 
sion. 

The  leader  and  his  command  perished  by  ship- 
wreck and  disasters,  all  but  four.  Among  the 
survivors  was  one  Alvar  Nunez  Cabeca  de  Vaca, 
treasurer  for  the  king  and  high  sheriff,  who  is  de- 
scribed in  the  annals  of  that  period  as  having  the 
most  beautiful  and  noble  figure  of  the  conquerors 
of  the  New  World ;  and  in  the  best  days  of 
chivalry  his  valor  on  the  battle-field,  his  resolution 
in  danger,  his  constancy  and  resignation  in  hard- 
ship, won  for  him  the  proud  title  "  Illustrious 
Warrior."  Ten  years  he,  with  three  companions, 
rambled  to  and  fro  between  the  Atlantic  and  Gulf 
of  California.  The  plain  statement  of  their  priva- 
tions and  miseries  must  of  necessity  be  filled  with 
marvels ;  that  of  Cabeca  de  Vaca,  duly  attested 
and  sworn  to,  is  weakened  by  wild  exaggerations, 
and  the  Relation  of  this  Western  Ulysses  is 
touched  with  high  colorings  and  embellished  with 
fantastic  fables  equal  to  the  moving  accidents  by 
flood  and  field  of  the  heroic  king  of  Ithaca.  He 
tells  of  famishing  with  hunger  till  they  devoured 
dogs  with  relish ;  of  marching  "  without  water  and 
without  way"  among  savages  of  giant  stature, 
dressed  in  robes,  "  with  wrought  ties  of  lion-skin, 
making  a  brave  show, — the  women  dressed  in 
wool  that  grows  on  trees ; "  *  of  meeting  cyclopean 
tribes,  who  had  the  sight  of  but  one  eye ;  of 
being  enslaved  and  going  naked — "as  we  were 
unaccustomed  to  being  so,  twice  a  year  we  cast 
our  skin,  like  serpents ;"  of  his  escape,  and,  after 
living  six  years  with  friendly  Indians,  of  being 
again  made  captive  by  barbarians,  who  amused 
themselves  by  pulling  out  his  beard  and  beating 
him  cruelly;  of  living  on  the  strange  fruits  of 
mezquit  and  prickly-pear ;  of  mosquitoes,  whose 
bite  made  men  appear  to  have  "  the  plagues  of 
*  The  hanging  moss.  Tittandsia  usneoide*. 
2 


The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

holy  Lazarus;  "  of  herds  of  wonderful  cows,  with 
hair  an  inch  thick,  frizzled  and  resembling  wool, 
roaming  over  boundless  plains. 

Holding  his  course  northwest,  he  came  to  a 
people  "  with  fixed  habitations  of  great  size,  made 
of  earth,  along  a  river  which  runs  between  two 
ridges;"  and  here  we  have  the  earliest  record  of 
Pueblo  or  Town  Indians,  so  named  as  distin- 
guished from  nomads  or  hunting  tribes,  dwelling 
in  lodges  of  buffalo-skin  and  boughs.  It  is  diffi- 
cult to  trace  his  course  along  the  nameless  rivers 
of  Texas;  he  must  have  ascended  the  Red  River 
and  then  struck  across  to  the  Canadian,  which 
runs  for  miles  through  a  deep  canon,  in  which  are 
yet  seen  extensive  ruins  of  ancient  cities.  Un- 
doubtedly he  was  then  among  the  Pueblo 
Indians,  in  the  northwestern  part  of  New 
Mexico.  He  described  them  as  an  intelligent 
race,  with  fine  persons,  possessing  great  strength, 
and  gave  them  the  name  "  Cow  Nation,"  because 
of  the  immense  number  of  buffaloes  killed  in 
their  country  and  along  the  river  for  fifty  leagues. 
The  region  was  very  populous,  and  throughout 
were  signs  of  a  better  civilization.  The  women 
were  better  treated  and  better  clad;  "they  had 
shawls  of  cotton;*  their  dress  was  a  skirt  of 
cotton  that  came  to  the  knees,  and  skirts  of 
dressed  deer-skins  to  the  ground,  opened  in  front 
and  fastened  with  leather  straps.  They  washed 
their  clothes  with  a  certain  soapy  root  which 
cleansed  them  well,  f  They  also  wore  shoes." 
This  is  the  first  account  of  the  natives  of  that 
country  wearing  covering  on  their  feet — doubt- 
less the  moccasins  still  worn  by  them. 

The  gentle  savages  hailed  the  white  men  as 
children  of  the  sun,  and,  in  adoration,  brought 

*  Made  of  the  fibre  of  the  maguey,  or  American  aloe. 

t  The  Iroot  of  the  Yucca  aloifoha.  a  spongy,  fibrous  mass,  con 
taining  gelatinous  and  alkaline  matter.  It  grows  in  most  parts  of 
New  Mexico,  where  it  is  called  amole,  and  is  used  instead  of  soap 
fyr  washing. 


Historic.  19 

their  blind  to  have  their  eyes  opened,  their  sick 
that,  by  the  laying  on  of  hands,  they  might  be 
healed.  Mothers  brought  little  children  for  bless- 
ings, and  many  humbly  sought  but  to  touch  their 
garments,  believing  virtue  would  pass  out  of 
them.  The  rude  hospitality  was  freely  accepted ; 
the  sons  of  the  morning  feasted  on  venison, 
pumpkins,  maize  bread,  the  fruit  of  the  prickly- 
pear;  and,  refreshed  by  the  banquet,  made  their 
worshipers  understand  that  they  too  were  suffer- 
ing with  a  disease  of  the  heart,  which  nothing 
but  gold  and  precious  stones  could  cure.  The 
Pueblos  were  then  as  now  a  race  depending  on 
agriculture  rather  than  the  chase,  and  were  in 
distress  because  rain  had  not  fallen  in  two  years, 
and  all  the  corn  they  had  planted  had  been  eaten 
by  moles.  They  were  afraid  to  plant  again  until 
it  rained,  lest  they  should  lose  the  little  seed  left, 
and  begged  the  fair  gods  "  to  tell  the  sky  to 
rain  ;  "  which  the  celestial  visitants  obligingly  did, 
and,  in  answer  to  the  prayers  of  the  red  men, 
breathed  on  their  buffalo  skins,  and  bestowed  a 
farewell  blessing  upon  them  at  parting. 

They  again  pushed  westward  in  search  of 
riches,  always  further  on,  crossed  a  portion  of  the 
Llano  Estacado,  or  Staked  Plain,  and  traveled 
"  for  a  hundred  leagues  through  a  thickly  settled 
country,  with  towns  of  earth  abounding  in  maize 
and  beans."  Hares  were  very  numerous.  When 
one  was  started  the  Indians  would  attack  him 
with  clubs,  driving  him  from  one  to  another  till 
he  was  killed  or  captured.* 

Everywhere  they  found  order,  thrift,  friendly 
welcome.  The  Indians  gave  Cabeca  de  Vaca  fine 
turquoises,  buffalo  robes,  or,  as  he  calls  them, 

*  This  is  still  a  favorite  sport  among  the  Pueblos.  They  sally 
out  from  their  villages,  mounted  on  burros,  to  the  prairies,  where 
rabbits  are  started  from  their  coverts,  when  the  horsemen  chase 
them ;  using  clubs,  which  they  throw  with  great  precision,  like  the 
"boomerang  of  the  savage  Australian.  In  this  way  thoy  catch  a 
great  many.  It  is  very  exciting,  a.nd  is  carried  on  amid  yells  and 
much  good-natured  laughter. 


20  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

"blankets  of  cow  skins, "and  fine  emeralds  made 
into  arrow-heads,  very  precious,  held  sacred,  and 
used  only  in  dances  and  celebrations.  They  said 
these  jewels  had  been  received  in  exchange  for 
bunches  of  plumes  and  the  bright  feathers  of  par- 
rots; they  were  brought  a  long  distance  from 
lofty  mountains  in  the  north,  where  were  crowded 
cities  of  very  large  and  strong  houses.* 

It  appears  from  his  Relation  that  Cabe$a  de 
Vaca  passed  over  the  entire  Territory  of  New 
Mexico,  went  down  the  Gila  to  a  point  near  its 
mouth,  struck  across  to  the  river  San  Miguel, 
thence  to  Culiacan,  and  so  on  to  Mexico,  where 
the  four  wanderers,  worn  by  hardship,  gaunt  and 
spectral  by  famine,  were  received  with  distin  tion 
by  the  Viceroy,  Mendoza,  and  Cortez,  Marquis  of 
the  Valley. 

The  venturesome  hero  was  summoned  to  Val- 
ladolid  to  appear  before  Charles  V.,  and  hastened 
to  lay  at  the  feet  of  his  imperial  master  the  gath- 
ered spoil  which  cost  ten  years  of  life  :  the  hide 
of  a  bison,  a  few  valueless  stones  resembling 
emerald,  and  a  handful  of  worthless  turquoises. 

Before  he  set  sail  for  Spain,  Cabeca  de  Vaca 
told  his  marvelous  story  to  sympathetic  and 
eager  listeners;  and,  besides,  airy  rumors  had 
already  floated  down  the  valley  of  Anahuac  of  a 
land  toward  the  north  where  seven  high-walled 
cities,  "the  Seven  Cities  of  Cibola,"  were  de- 
fended by  impregnable  outworks.  They  were 
least  among  the  provinces,  where  were  countless 
greater  cities  of  houses  built  with  numerous 
stories,  "  lighted  by  jewels,"  and  containing  treas- 
ure stored  away  in  secret  rooms,  rich  as  Atahual- 
pa's  ransom.  Various  rovers  gave  accounts  of 
natives  clad  in  curious  raiment,  richer  and  softer 

*  In  the  Navajo  country,  between  the  San  Juan  and  Colorado 
Chiquito,  are  found  quantities  of  beautiful  garnets  and  a  green 
stone  resembling  emerald.  It  abounds  in  ruins  of  pueblos  capable 
of  holding  many  thousand  souls:  in  all  probability  the  emeralds 
presented  to  De  Vaca  came  from  that  region. 


Historic.  *i 

than  Utrecht  velvet,  who  wore  priceless  gems, 
whole  ropes  and  chains  of  turquoises,  in  ignor- 
ance of  their  actual  value.  One  of  these  strag- 
glers, an  Indian,  reported  that  the  houses  "  of 
many  lofts  "  were  made  of  lime  and  stone ;  he 
had  seen  them  "  with  these  eyes."  The  gates 
and  smaller  pillars  of  the  principal  ones  were  of 
turquoise,  and  their  princes  were  served  by  beau- 
tiful girls,  whom  they  enslaved;  and  their  spear- 
heads, drinking-cups,  and  ornamental  vessels 
were  of  pure  gold.  There  were  wondrous  tales, 
too,  of  opal  mountains,*  lifted  high  in  an  atmos- 
phere of  such  amazing  clearness  that  they  could 
be  seen  at  vast  distances;  of  valleys  glittering 
with  garnets  and  beryls;  of  clear  streams  of 
water  flowing  over  silver  sands  ;  of  strange  flora ; 
of  the  shaggy  buffalo  ;  of  the  fearful  serpent  with 
castanets  in  its  tail ;  f  of  a  bird  like  the  peacock ;  J 
and  a  Llano,  broad  as  the  great  desert  of  Africa, 
over  which  hovered  a  mirage  more  dazzling  than 
the  Fata  Morgana,  more  delusive  than  the  spec- 
tre of  the  Brocken. 

A  friar  named  Niza,  with  one  of  the  compan- 
ions of  Cabeca  de  Vaca,  went  out  "  to  explore 
the  country  "  three  hundred  leagues  away,  to  a 
city  they  called  Cibola,§  clearly  identified  as  old 
Zuni,  on  a  river  of  the  same  name,  one  hundred 
and  eighty  miles  northwest  of  Santa  Fe.  This 
flighty  reporter  testified  to  Mendoza  that  he  had 
been  in  the  cities  of  Cibola,  and  had  seen  the 
turquoise  columns  and  soft,  feathery  cloaks  of 
those  who  dwelt  in  king's  palaces.  Their  houses 
were  made  of  stone,  several  stories  high  with  flat 
roofs,  arranged  in  good  order;  they  possessed 
many  emeralds  and  precious  stones,  but  valued 

*  The  name  still  attaches  to  a  snowy  range  southwest  of  Santa 
F6. 

1  Rattlesnake. 

1  Turkey. 

§  Indian  name  for  buffalo.  New  Mexico  was  known  to  the  early 
Spaniards  as  the  Buffalo  Province. 


M  The  Land  of  the  Pueblo*. 

turquoises  above  all  others.     They  had  vessels  of 
gold  and  silver  more  abundant  than  in  Peru. 

"  Following  as  the  Holy  Ghost  did  lead,"  he 
ascended  a  mountain,  from  which  he  surveyed 
the  promised  land  with  a  speculator's  eyes  ;  then, 
with  the  help  of  friendly  Indians,  he  raised  a 
heap  of  stones,  set  up  a  cross,  the  symbol  of 
taking  possession,  and  under  the  text,  "The 
heathen  are  given  as  an  inheritance,"  named  the 
province  "  El  Nuevo  Regno  de  San  Francisco  " 
(the  New  Kingdom  of  St.  Francis) ;  and  from 
that  day  to  this  San  Francisco  has  been  the 
patron  saint  of  New  Mexico. 

In  our  prosaic  age  of  doubt  and  question  it  is 
hard  to  understand  the  faith  with  which  sane  men 
trusted  these  bold  falsehoods.  They  were  mad 
with  the  lust  of  gold  and  passion  for  adventure ; 
and  valiant  cavaliers  who  had  won  renown  in  the 
battles  of  the  Moor  among  the  mountains  of 
Andalusia,  and  had  seen  the  silver  cross  of  Fer- 
dinand raised  above  the  red  towers  of  the  Alham- 
bra,  now  turned  their  brave  swords  against  the 
feeble  natives  of  the  New  World.  Less  than  half 
a  century  had  gone  by  since  the  discovery  of 
America;  the  conquests  of  Pizarro  and  Cortez 
were  fresh  in  men's  minds,  and  an  expedition 
containing  the  enchanting  quality  called  hazard 
was  soon  organized.  Illustrious  noblemen  sold 
their  vineyards  and  mortgaged  their  estates  to  fit 
the  adventurers  out,  assured  they  would  never 
need  more  gold  than  they  would  bring  back  from 
the  true  El  Dorado.  The  young  men  saw  vis- 
ions ;  the  old  men  dreamed  dreams ;  volunteers 
flocked  to  the  familiar  standards ;  and  an  army 
was  soon  ready  "to  discover  and  subdue  to  the 
crown  of  Spain  the  Seven  Cities  of  Cibola." 

Francisco  Vasquez  Coronado,  who  left  a  lovely 
young  wife  and  great  wealth  to  lead  the  roman- 
tic enterprise,  was  proclaimed  captain-general; 


Historic.  23 

and  Castenada,  historian  of  the  campaign,  writes, 
"  I  doubt  whether  there  has  ever  been  collected 
in  the  Indies  so  brilliant  a  troop."  The  whole 
force  numbered  fifteen  hundred  men  and  one 
thousand  horses ;  sheep  and  cows  were  driven 
along  to  supply  the  new  settlements  in  fairy- 
land. The  army  mustered  in  Compostella,  un- 
der no  shadow  darker  than  the  wavy  folds  of  the 
royal  banner,  and  one  fair  spring  morning,  the 
day  after  Easter,  1540,  marched  out  in  armor 
burnished  high,  with  roll  of  drums,  the  joyful  ap- 
peal of  bugles,  and  all  the  pomp  and  circum- 
stance the  old  Spaniard  loved  so  well.  The 
proud  cavaliers,  "very  gallant  in  silk  upon  silk," 
kindled  with  enthusiasm,  and  answered  with  loud 
shouts  the  cheers  of  the  people  who  thronged 
the  house-tops.  The  viceroy  led  the  army  two 
days  on  the  march,  exhorted  the  soldiers  to 
obedience  and  discipline,  and  returned  to  await 
reports. 

When  the  mind  is  prepared  for  wonders  the 
wonderful  is  sure  to  appear,  and  time  fails  to  tell 
what  prodigies  the  high-born  gentlemen  beheld : 
the  Indians  of  monstrous  size,  so  tall  the  tallest 
Spaniard  could  reach  no  higher  than  their  breasts ; 
a  unicorn,  which  escaped  their  chase.  "His 
horn,  found  in  a  deep  ravine,  was  a  fathom  and 
a  half  in  length  ;  the  base  was  thick  as  one's 
thigh ;  it  resembled  in  shape  a  goat's  horn,  and 
was  a  curious  thing."  They  were  the  first  white 
men  who  looked  down  the  gloomy  canon  of  the 
Colorado  to  the  black  rushing  river,  walled  by 
sheer  precipices  fifteen  hundred  feet  high.  Two 
men  tried  to  descend  its  steep  sides.  They 
climbed  down  perhaps  a  quarter  of  the  way, 
when  they  were  stopped  by  a  rock  which  seemed 
from  above  no  greater  than  a  man,  but  which  in 
reality  was  higher  than  the  top  of  the  cathedral 
tower  at  Seville.  They  passed  places  where  "the 


24  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

earth  trembled  like  a  drum,  and  ashes  boiled  in 
a  manner  truly  infernal ; "  watched  magnetic 
stones  roll  together  of  their  own  accord ;  and 
suffered  under  a  storm  of  hail -stones,  "large  as 
porringers,"  which  indented  their  helmets, 
wounded  the  men,  broke  their  dishes,  and  cover- 
ed the  ground  to  the  depth  of  a  foot  and  a  half 
with  ice-balls  ;  and  the  wind  raised  the  horses 
off  their  feet,  and  dashed  them  against  the  sides 
of  the  ravine.  They  fought  many  tribes  of  In- 
dians, and  were  relieved  to  meet  none  who  were 
"man-eaters  and  none  anthropophagi."* 

The  route  of  Coronado  is  traced  with  tolerable 
clearness  up  the  Colorado  to  the  Gila ;  up  the 
Gila  to  the  Casa  Grande,  called  Chichiticale,  or 
Red  House,  standing  more  than  three  centuries 
ago,  as  it  does  now,  in  a  mezquit  jungle  on  the 
edge  of  the  desert ;  "and,"  writes  his  secretary, 
"  our  general  was  above  all  distressed  at  rinding 
this  Chichiticale,  of  which  so  much  had  been 
said,  dwindled  down  to  one  mud  house,  in  ruins 
and  roofless,  but  which  seemed  to  have  been  for- 
tified." With  true  Spanish  philosophy,  he  cov- 
ered his  disappointment,  and  gave  the  place  an 
alluring  mystery,  with  the  idea  that  "  this  house, 
built  of  red  earth,  was  the  work  of  a  civilized 
people  come  from  a  distance."  And  into  the 
distance  he  went,  through  Arizona,  the  lowei 
border  of  Colorado,  and  turned  southeast  to 
where  Santa  Fe  now  stands,  then  the  central 
stronghold  of  the  Pueblo  empire.  They  fought 
and  marched,  destroyed  villages,  leveled  the  poor 
temples  of  the  heathen,  planted  the  cross,  and 
sang  thanksgiving  hymns  over  innumerable  souls 

*  Castenada's  Narrative  covered  147  MS.  pages,  written  on  paper 
in  characters  of  the  times,  and  rolled  in  parchment.  It  was  pre- 
served in  the  collection  of  D'Uguina,  Paris,  was  translated  and 
published  in  French  by  H.T.  Campans,  in  1838,  and  now  lies  before 
me.  It  is  wholly  free  from  the  vice  of  the  commonplace,  being 
tinged  with  the  warm  glow  which  precedes  the  morning  light  of 
,  history.  Wild  as  the  Homeric  legends,  it  serves  like  them  to  point 
the  way. 


Historic.  25 

to  be  saved, — all  very  well  as  far  as  it  went ;  but 
the  mud-built  pueblos  yielded  neither  gold  nor 
precious  metals. 

Acoma,  fifty  miles  east  of  Zuni,  is  thus  accu- 
rately described  by  Castenada,  under  the  name  of 
Acuco  :  "  It  is  a  very  strong  place,  built  upon  a 
rock  very  high  and  on  three  sides  perpendicular. 
The  inhabitants  are  great  brigands,  and  much 
dreaded  by  all  the  province.  The  only  means  of 
reaching  the  top  is  by  ascending  a  staircase  cut 
in  solid  rock:  the  first  flight  of  steps  numbered 
two  hundred,  which  could  only  be  ascended  with 
difficulty  ;  when  a  second  flight  of  one  hundred 
more  followed,  narrower  and  more  difficult  than 
the  first.  When  surmounted,  there  remained 
about  twelve  more  at  the  top,  which  could  only 
be  ascended  by  putting  the  hands  and  feet  in 
holes  cut  in  the  rock.  There  was  space  on  this 
summit  to  store  a  great  quantity  of  provisions, 
and  to  build  large  cisterns."  * 

The  chiefs  told  Coronado  that  their  towns 
were  older  than  the  memory  of  seven  generations. 
They  were  all  built  on  the  same  plan,  in  blocks 
shaped  like  a  parallelogram,  and  were  from  two 
to  four  stories  high,  with  terraces  receding  from 
the  outside.  The  lower  story,  without  openings, 
was  entered  from  above  by  ladders,  which  were 
pulled  up,  and  secured  them  against  Indian  war- 
fare. There  was  no  interior  communication  be- 
tween the  stories ;  the  ascent  outside  was  made 
from  one  terrace  to  another.  The  houses  were  of 
sun-dried  bricks,  and  for  plaster  they  used  a  mix- 
ture of  ashes,  earth,  and  coal.  Every  village  had 
from  one  to  seven  estufas,  built  partly  under- 
ground, walled  over  the  top  with  flat  roofs,  and 

*  It  is  the  same  to-day  that  it  was  in  1540,— a  place  of  great 
strength ;  and  the  Mesa  can  be  ascended  only  by  the  artificial 
road.  The  houses  on  top  are  of  adobes,  one  and  two  stories  in 
height.  Water  is  brought  from  the  valley  below  by  the  woman  in 
jars  of  earthenware,  which  they  balance  on  their  heads  with  won- 
derful ease  as  they  ascend  the  high  steps  and  ladders.  The  pres- 
ent population  numbers  not  over  four  hundred  souls. 


26  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

used  for  political  and  religious  purposes.  As  in 
certain  other  mystic  lodges  which  date  back  to  the 
days  of  King  Solomon,  women  were  not  admitted. 
All  matters  of  importance  were  there  discussed  ; 
there  the  consecrated  fires  were  kept  burning, 
and  were  never  allowed  to  go  out.  The  women 
wore  on  their  shoulders  a  sort  of  mantle,  which 
they  fastened  round  the  neck,  passing  it  under 
the  right  arm,  and  skirts  of  cotton.  "  They  also," 
writes  Castenada,  "  make  garments  of  skins  very 
well  dressed,  and  trick  off  the  hair  behind  the 
ears  in  the  shape  of  a  wheel,  which  resembles  the 
handle  of  a  cup."  They  wore  pearls  on  their 
heads  and  necklaces  of  shells.  Everywhere  were 
plenty  of  glazed  pottery  and  vases  of  curious 
form  and  workmanship,  reminding  the  Spaniards 
of  the  jars  of  Guadarrama  in  old  Spain. 

The  gallant  freebooters  traversed  deserts,  swam 
rivers,  scaled  mountains,  in  a  three  years'  chase 
after  visionary  splendors ;  but  the  opal  valley 
and  the  vanishing  cities,  with  their  sunny  tur- 
quoise gates  and  jeweled  colonnades,  faded  into 
the  common  light  of  day.  Though  the  adventu- 
rers failed  in  their  mocking  "  quest  of  great  and 
exceeding  riches,"  they  explored  and  added  to 
the  Spanish  crown,  by  right  of  occupation,  an 
area  twelve  times  as  large  as  the  State  of  Ohio. 

I  dwell  on  these  earliest  records  because  it  is 
the  habit  of  travelers  visting  ruins,  which  in  the 
dry,  dewless  air  of  New  Mexico  are  almost  im- 
perishable, to  ascribe  them  to  an  extinct  race  and 
lost  civilization,  superior  to  any  now  extant  here. 
They  muse  over  Aztec  glories  faded,  and  temples 
fallen,  in  the  spirit  of  the  immortal  antiquary,  who 
saw  in  a  ditch  "slightly  marked"  a  Roman  wall, 
surrounding  the  stately  and  crowded  praetorium, 
with  its  all-conquering  standards  bearing  the 
great  name  of  Caesar. 

These   edifices   are  not  mysterious  except  to 


Historic.  27 

fancies,  and  their  tenants  were  not  divers 
nations,  but  clans,  tribes  of  one  blood,  and  civil- 
ized only  as  compared  with  the  savages  surround- 
ing them — the  tameless  Apache,  the  brutish  Ute, 
the  degraded  Navajo,  against  whose  attacks  they 
devised  their  system  of  defense,  so  highly  ex- 
tolled by  rambling  Bohemians,  and  threw  up 
"  impregnable  works,"  which  are  only  low  em- 
bankments wide  enough  for  the  posting  of 
sentinels. 

I  have  been  through  many  abandoned  and 
inhabited  pueblos,  examining  them  with  the 
utmost  care,  and  can  discover  no  essential  in 
which  they  differ  from  one  another  or  from  those 
of  Castenada's  time-.  In  each  one  there  is  the 
terraced  wall ;  the  vault-like  lower  story,  used  as 
a  granary,  without  openings,  and  entered  from 
above  by  ladders ;  the  small  upper  rooms,  with 
tiny  windows  of  selenite  and  mica;  the  same 
round  oven;  the  glazed  pottery;  the  circular 
estufa  with  its  undying  fire ;  acequias  for  irriga- 
tion, not  built  like  Roman  aqueducts,  but  mere 
ditches  and  canals ;  and  from  the  sameness  of  the 
remains  I  infer  that  no  important  facts  are  to 
reward  the  search  of  dreaming  pilgrim  or  patient 
student. 

Each  village  had  its  peculiar  dialect,  and  chose 
its  own  governor.  The  report  of  the  Rev.  John 
Menaul,  of  the  Laguna  Mission,  March  I,  1879, 
gives  an  abstract  of  their  laws,  identical  with 
those  framed  by  "the  council  of  old  men,"  the 
dusky  senators  described  by  Castenada;  and  then, 
as  now,  the  governor's  orders  were  proclaimed 
from  the  top  of  the  estufa,  every  morning,  by  the 
town-crier. 

After  the  invasion  of  Coronado,  New  Granada, 
as  it  was  then  called,  was  crossed  by  padres, 
vagabonds  of  various  grades,  and  later  by  armies 
of  subjugation.  The  same  tele  is  told ;  how  the 


28  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

peace-loving  Pueblo  was  found,  as  his  descend 
ants  are,  cultivating  fields  along  the  rivers  or 
near  some  unfailing  spring,  living  in  community 
houses  wonderfully  alike,  and  keeping  alive  the 
sacred  fire  under  laws  which  like  those  of  the 
Medes  and  Persians,  change  not.  The  fair 
strangers  were  at  first  graciously  welcomed  and 
feasted;  but  the  red  men  soon  learned  that  the 
children  of  the  sun,  before  whom  they  knelt, 
whose  march-worn  feet  they  kissed  in  ado- 
ration, were  come  merely  for  robbery  and  spoil. 
The  Indian  was  condemned  not  only  to  give  up 
his  scanty  possessions,  and  leave  the  warm 
precincts  of  the  cheerful  day  to  work  in  dismal 
mines,  but  he  must  put  out  the  holy  flame,  and 
worship  the  God  of  his  pitiless  master.  Conver- 
sion was  ever  a  main  object  of  the  zealous  con- 
quislador,  and  Vargas,  one  of  the  early  Spanish 
governors,  applying  for  troops  to  carry  on  the  cru- 
sade, writes — and  his  record  still  stands — "You 
might  as  well  try  convert  Jews  without  the  In- 
quisition as  Indians  without  soldiers."  The  first 
revolt  (1640),  while  Arguello  was  governor  of  the 
province,  grew  out  of  the  whipping  and  hanging 
of  forty  Pueblos,  who  refused  to  give  up  their 
own  religion  and  accept  the  holy  Catholic  faith. 

The  Pueblos  constantly  rebelled,  and  escaped 
to  the  lair  of  the  mountain  lion,  the  den  of  the 
grizzly  and  cinnamon  bear,  the  hole  of  the  fox 
and  coyote.  They  sought  shelter  from  the  ava- 
rice and  bigotry  of  their  Christian  persecutors  in 
the  steeps  of  distant  canons,  and  found  where  to 
lay  their  head  in  the  hollows  of  inaccessible  rocks ; 
and  this  brings  us  to  the  cliff  houses,  latterly  the 
subject  of  confused  exaggeration  and  absurd  con- 
jecture. 

It  is  well  known  that  the  first  foreign  invasions 
were  by  far  the  n.ost  merciless,  and  it  appears 
reasonable  that  hunted  natives  maJe  a  hiding- 


Historic.  29 

place  in  these  fastnesses;  that  there  they  allied 
themselves  with  the  Navajo,  who,  from  a  remote 
period,  had  dwelt  in  the  northern  plains,  beat 
back  the  enemy,  and,  as  Spanish  rigor  relaxed, 
returned  from  exile  to  their  fields  and  adobe  houses 
as  before.  Mud  walls  had  been  proof  against  arrow, 
spear,  and  battle-axe,  but  could  not  withstand 
the  finer  arms  of  the  fairer  race.  The  cave  or 
cliff-dwellings  of  Utah,  Colorado,  and  Arizona  are 
exact  copies  of  the  community  tenements  of 
Southern  and  Moquis  pueblos,  varying  with  situa- 
tion and  quality  of  material  used.  The  architec- 
ture of  these  human  nests  and  eyries — in  some 
places  seven  hundred  and  a  thousand  feet  from 
the  bottom  of  the  canon — has  been  magnified  out 
of  all  bounds.  Eager  explorers,  hurried  away  by 
imagination,  have  even  compared  the  civilization 
which  produced  them  with 

"  The  glory  that  was  Greece, 
The  grandeur  that  was  Koine." 

I  found  nothing  in  them  to  warrant  such  flights 
of  fancy,  and,  like  all  castles  in  air,  they  lessen 
wofully  at  a  near  view.  Those  along  the  Rio 
Mancos  and  Du  Chelly  are  mere  pigeon-holes  in 
the  sides  of  canons,  roofed  by  projecting  ledges 
of  rock.  The  walls,  six  or  eight  inches  thick, 
are  built  of  flat  brook-stones  hacked  on  the  edge 
with  stone  hatchets,  or  rather  hammers,  to  square 
angles;  in  some  cases  they  are  laid  in  mud  mor- 
tar and  finished  with  mud  plaster,  troweled,  Pueblo 
fashion,  with  the  bare  hand.  Certainly,  mortal 
never  fled  to  these  high  perches  from  choice,  or 
failed  to  desert  them  as  soon  as  the  danger 
passed.  Whether  we  believe  that  the  hunters 
were  Christian  or  heathen,  we  must  admit  that 
this  was  a  last  refuge  for  the  hunted,  made  desper- 
ate by  terror.  The  masonry  is  smoothed,  so 
none  but  the  sharpest  eyes  can  notice  the  differ- 


30  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

ence  between  it  and  the  rock  itself,  and  in  no 
instance  is  there  trace  of  chimney  jr  fire-place.* 
The  whole  idea  of  the  work  is  concealment. 

One  might  well  ask,  with  sight-seeing  Niza 
strolling  through  fabled  Cibola,  "  if  the  men  of 
that  country  had  wings  by  which  to  reach  these 
high  lofts."  Unfortunately  for  the  romancers, 
"  they  showed  him  a  well-made  ladder,  and  said 
they  ascended  by  this  means. "  And  well-made 
ladders  the  cliff  dwellers  had — steps  cut  in  the 
living  rock  of  the  mountain,  and  scaling-ladders 
stout  and  light. 

The  solitary  watch-towers  along  the  McElmo, 
Colorado,  and  wide-spread  relics  of  cities  in  the 
canon  of  the  Hovenwap,  Utah,  near  the  old 
Spanish  trail  through  the  mountains  from  Santa 
Fe  to  Salt  Lake,  are  built  on  the  same  general 
plan,  and  divided  into  snug  cells  and  peep-holes, 
averaging  six  by  eight  feet.  Perpendiculars  are 
regarded;  stones  dressed  to  uniform  size  are  laid 
in  mud  mortar.  A  distinguishing  feature  is  in 
the  round  corners,  one  at  least  appearing  in  near- 
ly every  little  house.  "  Most  peculiar,  however, 
is  the  dressing  of  the  walls  of  the  upper  and 
lower  front  rooms,  both  being  plastered  with  a 
thin  layer  of  firm  adobe  cement  of  about  the 
eighth  of  an  inch  in  thickness,  and  colored  a  deep 
maroon  red,  with  a  dingy  white  band  eight  inches 
in  breath  running  around  floor,  sides,  and  ceil- 
ing" f — ideas  of  improvements  probably  deri- 
ved from  their  enlightened  conquerors.  There 
is  a  story  that  a  hatchet  found  there  would  cut 
cold  steel,  but  I  have  not  been  able  to  learn  its 
origin  or  trace  it  to  any  reliable  authority. 

In  every  room  entered  was  the  unfailing  mark 

*  Canon  du  (/nelly,  in  Arizona,  on  the  Navajo  Eeservation,  is  a 
passage  through  a  mountain  range,  twenty -live  miles  in  length, 
from  one  hundred  to  five  hundred  yards  in  width,  and  is  perhaps 
the  strongest  natural  citadel  on  the  earth.  There  is  but  one 
narrow  way  by  which  a  horse  can  ascend  its  height,  where  a  squad 
of  soldiers  could  defy  the  cavalry  of  the  wor}(J. 

f  Sayden's  Survey,  1874, 


Historic.  31 

of  the  Pueblo — pottery  glazed  and  streaked,  as 
manufactured  by  no  other  tribe  of  Indians,  and 
invariably  reduced  to  fragments,  either  through 
superstition  or  to  prevent  its  falling  into  the 
hands  of  the  enemy.  No  entire  vase  or  jar  has 
appeared  among  the  masses  strewed  from  one 
end  to  the  other  of  their  ancient  dominion.  I 
have  picked  up  quantities  of  this  pottery  near 
old  towns,  where  it  covers  the  ground  like  broken 
pavement,  but  have  not  seen  one  piece  four  inches 
square. 

After  their  first  experiments  the  Spaniards  saw 
the  policy  of  conciliating  a  confederation  so 
numerous  and  powerful  as  the  Pueblos,  and  as  early 
as  the  time  of  Philip  II.  mountains,  pastures,  and 
waters  were  declared  common  to  both  races ; 
ordinances  were  issued  granting  them  lands  for 
agriculture,  but  the  title  in  no  instance  was  of 
higher  grade  than  possession.  The  fee-simple 
remained  in  the  crown  of  Spain,  then  in  the  gov- 
ernment of  Mexico,  by  virtue  of  her  independ- 
ence, and  under  the  treaty  of  Guadaloupe  Hidal- 
go, February  2,  1848,  passed  to  the  United 
States. 

When  General  Kearney  took  possession  of  the 
country  the  Pueblos  were  among  the  first  to  give 
allegiance  to  our  government,  and,  as  allies,  were 
invaluable  in  chasing  the  barbarous  tribes — their 
old  enemies,  whom  they  tracked  with  the  keen 
scent  and  swiftness  of  blood-hounds.  They  now 
number  not  less  than  twenty  thousand  peaceful, 
contented  citizens,  entitled  to  confidence  and 
respect,  and  by  decree  of  the  supreme  court 
(1871)  they  became  legal  voters. 

Without  written  language,  or  so  much  as  the 
lowest  form  of  picture-writing,  they  usually  speak 
a  little  Spanish,  enough  for  purposes  of  trade, 
and,  less  stolid  and  unbending  than  the  nomads, 
in  manner  are  extremely  gentle  and  friendly. 


32  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

Their  quaint  primitive  customs,  curious  myths, 
and  legends  afford  rich  material  for  the  poet,  and 
their  antiquities  open  an  endless  field  to  the  delv- 
ing archaeologist. 

Nominally  Catholics,  they  are  really  only  bap- 
tized heathen.  A  race  so  rigidly  conservative 
must  by  very  nature  be  true  to  the  ancient  cere- 
monials, and  their  religion  is  not  the  least  attract- 
ive study  offered  by  this  interesting  people.  Even 
the  dress  of  the  women  (oh,  happy  women !)  has 
remained  unchanged, — the  same  to-day  as  de- 
scribed by  Coronado's  secretary  in  1541. 

There  passes  my  window  at  this  moment  a 
young  Indian  girl  from  Tesuque,  a  village  eight 
miles  north  of  Santa  Fe.  Like  the  beloved  one 
of  the  Canticles,  she  is  dark  but  comely,  and 
without  saddle  or  bridle  sits  astride  her  little 
burro  in  cool  defiance  of  city  prejudice.  Always 
gayly  dressed,  with  ready  nod  and  a  quick  smile, 
showing  the  whitest  teeth,  we  call  her  Bright  Al- 
farata,  in  memory  of  the  sweet  singer  of  the  blue 
Juniata;  though  the  interpreter  says  her  true 
name  is  Poy-ye,  the  Rising  Moon.  Neither  of  us 
understands  a  word  of  the  other's  language,  so  I 
beckon  to  her.  She  springs  to  the  ground  with 
the  supple  grace  of  an  antelope,  and  comes  to 
me,  holding  out  a  thin,  slender  hand,  the  tint  of 
Florentine  bronze,  seats  herself  on  the  window- 
sill,  and  in  the  shade  of  the  portal  we  converse 
in  what  young  lovers  are  pleased  to  call  eloquent 
silence.  Her  donkey  will  not  stray,  but  lingers 
patiently  about,  like  the  lamb  he  resembles  in 
face  and  temper,  and  nibbles  the  scant  grass 
which  fringes  the  acequia.  I  think  his  mistress 
must  be  a  lady  of  high  degree,  perhaps  the  ca- 
cique's daughter,  she  wears  such  a  holiday  air, 
unusual  with  Indian  women,  and  is  so  richly 
adorned  with  beads  of  strung  periwinkles.  She 
wears  loose  moccasins,  "  shoes  of  silence,"  which 


Historic.  33 

cannot  hide  the  delicate  and  shapely  outline  of 
her  feet,  leggins  of  deer-skin,  a  skirt  reaching 
below  the  knee,  and  a  cotton  chemise.  Her  head 
has  no  covering  but  glossy  jet-black  hair,  newly 
washed  with  amole,  banged  in  front,  and  "  is 
tricked  off  behind  the  ears  in  the  shape  of  a 
wheel  which  resembles  the  handle  of  a  cup"- 
the  distinguishing  fashion  of  maidenhood  now  as 
it  was  more  than  three  hundred  years  ago.  Tied 
by  a  scarlet  cord  across  her  forehead  is  a  pend- 
ant of  opaline  shell,  the  lining  of  a  muscle  shell, 
doubtless  the  very  ornament  called  precious 
pearl  and  opal  which  dazzled  the  eyes  and  stir- 
red the  covetous  hearts  of  the  first  conquistador es. 
Our  Pueblo  belle  wraps  about  her  drapery  such 
as  Castenada's  maiden  never  dreamed  of, — a  flow- 
ing mantle  which  has  followed  the  march  of 
progress.  Thrown  across  the  left  shoulder  and 
drawn  under  her  bare  and  beautiful  right  arm  is 
a  handsome  red  blanket,  with  the  letters  U.  S. 
woven  in  the  centre. 

One  secret  cause  of  the  Pueblos'  ready  adher- 
ence to  our  government  is  their  tradition  that, 

"  Far  away 
In  the  eternal  yesterday." 

Montezuma,  .the  brother  and  equal  ot  God, 
built  the  sacred  city  Pecos,  marked  the  lines  of 
its  fortifications,  and  with  his  own  royal  hand 
kindled  the  sacred  fire  in  the  estufa.  Close 
beside  it  he  planted  a  tree  upside  down,  with  the 
prophecy  that,  if  his  children  kept  alive  the  flame 
till  his  tree  fell,  a  pale  nation,  speaking  an 
unknown  tongue,  should  come  from  the  pleasant 
country  where  the  sun  rises,  and  free  them  from 
Spanish  rule.  He  promised  the  chosen  ones 
that  he  would  return  in  fullness  of  time,  and  then 
went  to  the  glorious  rest  prepared  for  him  in  his 
tabernacle  the  sun. 

I  have  seen  the  remains  of  that  forsaken   city, 
3 


34  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

once  a  mighty  fortress,  now  desolate  with  the  des- 
olation of  Zion.  Thorns  have  come  up  in  her  pal- 
aces, nettles  and  brambles  in  the  fortresses  there- 
of. It  is  a  habitation  for  dragons  and  a  court  for 
owls.  The  site,  admirably  chosen  for  defense,  is 
on  a  promontory,  somewhat  in  the  shape  of  a 
foot,  which  gave  a  broad  lookout  to  the  sentry, 
In  the  valley  below,  the  waters  of  the  river  Pecos 
flow  softly,  and  park-like  intervals  fill  the  spaces 
toward  foot-hills  which  skirt  the  everlasting 
mountain  walls.  The  adobe  houses  have  crumb- 
led to  the  dust  of  which  they  were  made,  and 
heaped  among  their  ruins  are  large  blocks  of 
stone,  oblong  and  square,  weighing  a  ton  or 
more,  and  showing  signs  of  being  once  laid  in 
mortar. 

The  outline  of  the  immense  estitfa,  forty  feet 
in  diameter,  is  plainly  visible,  sunken  in  the  earth 
and  paved  with  stone  ;  but  all  trace  of  the  upper 
story  of  the  council  chamber  has  vanished.  On 
the  mesa  there  is  not  a  tree,  not  even  the  dwarf 
cedar,  which  strikes  its  roots  in  sand,  and  lives 
almost  without  water  or  dew  ;  but,  strange  to  see, 
across  the  centre  of  the  estufa  lies  the  trunk  of  a 
large  pine,  several  feet  in  circumference — an 
astonishing  growth  in  that  sterile  soil.  The  Indian 
resting  in  its  fragrant  shade,  listening  to  the  nev- 
er-ceasing west  wind  swaying  slender  leaves  that 
answered  to  its  touch  like  harp-strings  to  the 
harper's  hand,  clothed  the  stately  evergreen  with 
loving  superstition,  which  hovers  round  it  even 
in  death ;  ior  this  is  the  Montezuma  tree,  planted 
when  the  world  was  young. 

When  Pecos  was  deserted  the  people  went  out 
as  Israel  from  Egypt,  leaving  not  a  hoof  behind. 
They  destroyed  everything  that  could  be  of  ser- 
vice to  an  enemy,  and  the  ground  is  yet  covered 
with  scraps  of  broken  pottery  marked  with  their 
peculiar  tracery. 


Historic.  35 

The  Oriental  Gheber  built  his  temple  over  deep 
subterranean  fires,  and  the  steady  light  shone  on 
after  altar  and  shrine  were  abandoned  and  for- 
gotten ;  but  the  fire-worshipers  on  the  stony  mesa 
at  Pecos  had  a  very  different  work.  The  only 
fuel  at  hand  was  cedar  from  the  adjacent  hills; 
and,  shut  in  the  dark  inclosure,  filled  with  pitchy 
smoke  and  suffocating  gas,  it  is  not  strange  that 
death  sometimes  relieved  the  watch.  When  the 
chiefs,  who  had  seen  the  kingly  friend  of  the  red 
man,  grew  old,  and  the  hour  came  for  their 
departure  to  their  home  in  the  sun,  they  charged 
the  young  men  to  guard  the  treasure  hidden  in 
the  silent  chamber.  Another  generation  came 
and  went ;  prophecy  and  promise  were  handed 
down  from  age  to  age,  and  the  Pueblo  sentinel, 
true  to  his  unwritten  creed,  guarded  the  conse- 
crated place  beside  the  miracle-tree,  daily  climbed 
the  lonely  watch-tower,  looked  toward  the  sun- 
rising,  and  listened  for  the  coming  of  the  beauti- 
ful feet  of  them  that  on  the  mountain-top  bring 
glad  tidings.  Their  days  of  persecution  ended, 
they  no  longer  ate  their  bread  with  tears,  and  a 
century  of  prosperous  content  went  by.  Then 
they  were  shorn  of  their  strength,  and  their 
power  was  broken  by  inroads  of  warring  nations. 
The  cunning  Navajo  harried  their  fields  and 
trampled  the  ripening  maize ;  the  thieving  and 
tameless  Comanche  carried  off  their  wives,  and 
sold  their  children  into  slavery,  and  their  num- 
bers were  so  reduced  that  the  warriors  were  too 
feeble  to  attempt  a  rescue.  Hardly  enough  sur- 
vived to  minister  in  the  holy  place ;  hope  wa- 
vered, and  the  mighty  name  of  Montezuma  was 
but  a  dim,  proud  memory. 

Yet  the  devoted  watchmen  dreamed  of  a  day 
when  he  should  descend  with  the  sunlight — 
crowned,  plumed,  and  anointed — to  fill  the  dingy 
estufa  with  a  glory  like  that  when  the  Divine 


36  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

Presence  shook  the  mercy-seat  between  the 
cherubim.  The  eternal  fire  flickered,  smouldered 
in  embers,  but  endured  through  all  change  and 
chance,  like  a  potent  will ;  it  was  the  visible 
shadow  of  the  Invisible  One,  whose  name  it  is 
death  to  utter.  Sent  by  his  servant  and  law- 
giver, his  word  was  sure ;  they  would  rest  on  the 
promise  till  sun  and  earth  should  die. 

At  last,  at  last,  constant  faith  and  patient  vigil 
had  their  reward.  On  the  wings  of  the  wind 
across  the  snowy  Sierras  was  heard  a  sound  like 
the  rushing  of  many  waters — the  loud  steps  of 
the  promised  deliverer.  East,  toward  Santo 
Domingo,  southward  from  the  Rio  Grande,  there 
entered  Santa  Fe  an  army  of  men  with  faces 
whiter  than  the  conquered  Mexican.  Their 
strange,  harsh  language  was  heard  in  the  streets; 
a  foreign  flag  bearing  the  colors  of  the  morning, 
white  and  red,  blue  and  gold,  was  unrolled  above 
the  crumbling  palace  of  the  Pueblos.  The 
prophecy  was  fulfilled,  and  at  noon  that  day  the 
magic  tree  at  Pecos  fell  to  the  ground. 

After  the  American  occupation,  the  remnant  of 
the  tribe  in  Pecos  joined  that  of  Jemez,  which 
speaks  the  same  language.  It  is  said  the  cacique, 
or  governor,  carried  with  him  the  Montezuma 
fire,  and  in  a  new  estufa,  sixty  miles  from  the  one 
hallowed  by  his  gracious  presence,  the  faithful 
are  awaiting  the  second  advent  of  the  beloved 
prophet,  priest,  and  king,  who  is  to  come  in 
glory  and  establish  his  throne  forever  and  ever. 


CHAPTER  III. 

LAWS    AND   CUSTOMS. 

THE  number  of  Pueblo  or  Town  Indians  of 
New  Mexico  and  Arizona  has  been  variously 
estimated  at  from  sixteen  to  twenty-five  thousand. 
The  dumb  secrecy  of  the  red  race  makes  it  diffi- 
cult for  the  census-taker  to  reach  correct 
figures  among  them.  They  have  a  suspicion 
that  the  Sagamore  with  medicine-book,  ink  and 
pen  has  come  to  question  them  with  wicked  in- 
tent; that  numbering  the  people  means  plotting 
for  mischief;  and  they  secrete  their  children  and 
give  false  figures,  so  it  is  impossible  to  arrive  at  an 
accurate  estimate  of  their  numbers.  In  the  cul- 
tured East  there  is  a  popular  superstition  that 
the  noble  aboriginal  soul  disdains  artifice,  and  is 
open  as  sunlight  to  the  sweet  influences  of  truth 
and  straightforward  testimony  : — an  illusion  ris- 
ing from  the  misty  enchantments  of  distance. 
Come  among  them,  and  you  will  soon  learn  to 
make  allowance  for  every  assertion;  and  as  for 
vanity  and  self-love  I  have  never  seen  any  equal 
that  of  the  children  of  nature  debased  by  contact 
with  the  white  men.  They  cannot  be  instructed, 
because  they  know  everything,  nor  surprised, 
because  their  fathers  had  all  wisdom  before  you 
were  born.  Show  them  the  most  curious  and 
beautiful  article  you  possess ;  they  survey  it  with 
stolid  composure  as  an  object  long  familiar.  I 
once  saw  an  officer,  thinking  to  floor  a  Cacique, 
unfold  the  wonders  of  a  telescope  to  the  untu- 
tored mind,  and  explain  how,  by  bending  his 
beady  eyes  to  a  certain  point  the  child  of  the 
sun  might  see  the  spots  on  his  father;  when  the 
blanketed  philosopher  coolly  observed  that  he  had 

37 


38  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

often  looked  through  such  machines.  We  then 
gave  it  up.  Like  the  Chinese  they  so  closely 
resemble,  nothing  can  be  named  which  they  did 
not  have  ages  ago ;  and  having  so  long  possessed 
all  knowledge,  they  steadily  resist  your  efforts  to 
show  them  their  ignorance.  They  think  them- 
selves the  envy  of  the  civilized  world.  Among 
such  a  people  one  soon  learns  to  repress  assump- 
tion ot  superiority  or  effort  to  impress  the  calm 
listener  with  your  grammatical  sentences.  The 
poverty  of  their  language  is  indescribable. 
Where  there  is  no  writing,  and  of  course  no 
standard  of  comparison,  the  change  in  the  sound 
of  words  goes  on  rapidly,  while  the  great  princi- 
ple of  utterance  or  general  grammar  remains. 
Mere  change  of  accent  under  such  circumstances 
produces  a  dialect.  It  is  not  easy  to  catch  the 
lawless  Indian  tongues  ;  those  of  the  wandering 
tribes  are  peculiarly  unmanageable,  and  it  is 
wise  to  have  a  common  meeting-place  in  the 
little  Spanish  which  they  pick  up.  They  have 
no  preposition,  article,  conjunction,  or  relative 
pronoun,  and  to  a  great  degree  lack  the  mood 
and  tense  of  the  verb.  A  dual  and  negative  form 
runs  throughout  the  languages,  and  sentences 
are  often  composed,  not  of  the  words  which  the 
objects  mentioned  separately  mean,  but  of  words 
meaning  certain  things  in  certain  connections. 
The  disheartened  student,  groping  in  the  dark  for 
signs  and  rules,  and  finding  none,  is  glad  to  turn 
from  his  bewildering  labor  to  the  interpreter  who 
has  learned  by  ear. 

The  Pueblos  have  nineteen  different  villages  in 
New  Mexico,  numbering  in  all  nearly  ten  thous- 
and souls.  The  towns  are  evidently  smaller 
than  they  were  formerly,  as  is  plainly  proved  by 
ruins  of  houses  throughout  their  ancient  dominion, 
and  old  worn  foot-paths,  abandoned  or  almost  un- 
trodden, that  lead  from  town  to  town,  beaten  by 


Laws  and  Customs.  39 

centuries  of  wayfaring  in  some  period  whereof 
there  is  no  history. 

They  are  slowly  decreasing  in  numbers,  and, 
says  a  gentleman  resident  among  them  ten  years, 
"why  they  should  gradually  disappear  like  the 
nomadic  and  warlike  tribes,  is  a  question  not 
easily  solved  except  by  the  hypothesis  that  their 
time  has  come.  Their  great  failing  is  lack  of 
self-assertion.  Conquered  and  brought  down 
from  freedom  and  peace  two  centuries  ago,  to  a 
condition  of  servitude  and  an  enforced  religion, 
the  power  of 'The  Fair  God '  has  rested  heavily 
on  them  ever  since." 

There  are  singular  characteristics  among  these 
Pueblos.  Each  village  is  a  separate  domain  or 
clan,  self-supporting,  entirely  independent  of  the 
government  of  the  other  Pueblos  and  the  great 
world  in  the  country  across  the  Sierras  where  the 
sun  rises.  There  is  no  common  bond  of  union 
among  them,  and  so  little  intercourse  have  they 
with  each  other  that  their  language,  everywhere 
subject  to  great  mutations,  is  so  altered  that 
they  communicate  when  needful  through  the 
Spanish,  of  which  most  Indian  men  understand 
enough  to  make  their  wishes  known.  There  are 
three  dialects  among  the  tribes  of  New  Mexico, 
and  three  or  four  more  among  those  of  Arizona. 
Few  Indians  understand  more  than  one.  In  the 
seven  Moqui  villages  of  Arizona,  within  a  radius 
of  ten  miles,  three  distinct  tongues  are  spoken. 
The  inhabitants  are  identical  in  blood,  manners, 
laws  and  mode  of  life.  For  centuries  they  have 
been  isolated  from  the  rest  of  the  world,  and  it  is 
almost  incomprehensible  to  the  restless,  aggres- 
sive, fairer  race  how  these  Pueblos  refuse  any 
inter-communication.  Tegua  and  the  two  adja- 
cent towns  are  separated  by  a  few  miles  from 
Mooshahneh  and  another  pair.  Oraybe  is  not  a 
great  distance  from  both.  Each  mud-walled 


40  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

community-house  has  so  little  interest  in  the 
others  that  there  is  neither  trade  nor  visiting  be- 
tween them.  One  might  think  the  women,  at 
least,  would  sometimes  pick  up  their  knitting 
and  go  out  for  a  little  social  enjoyment  and  the 
friendly  gossip  so  dear  to  the  feminine  heart,  or 
that  crafty  hunters,  tracking  deer  and  coyote, 
would  follow  the  abandoned  trails  of  the  fore- 
fathers winding  among  the  towns,  but  they  do 
not;  they  are  too  sluggish  and  dead,  and  it  is  the 
rarest  thing  for  a  man  to  marry  outside  of  his 
own  little  tribe.  I  have  heard  the  assertion  that 
so  far  from  dying  out  before  the  march  of  civili- 
zation the  increase  goes  steadily  on — not  in  all  the 
tribes,  but  in  the  aggregate.  It  is  not  true.  The 
prehistoric  ruins  plainly  prove  that  in  long  for- 
gotten days  the  Pueblos  were  numerous  and 
powerful ;  a  nation  and  a  company  of  nations. 
The  Rio  Grande  valley  was  then  dotted  with 
clusters  of  towns,  and  Santa  Fe  was  the  centre  of 
four  confederacies,  and  among  the  most  populous 
of  cities.  Down  the  little  Rio  on  both  banks  are 
remains  of  villages,  heaps  of  crumbling  adobes, 
and  the  unfailing  sign  of  fleeing  tribes,  scraps  of 
broken  pottery,  glazed  and  painted  with  their 
peculiar  markings.  Thinking  of  the  bold 
theories  about  population,  one  naturally  asks,  Who 
took  the  census  when  De  Soto  went  wandering 
up  and  down  the  everglades  of  Florida  seeking 
the  alluring,  ever  vanishing  Fountain  of  Youth. 

Every  Pueblo,  or  village,  has  its  own  officers 
and  government  independent  of  all  the  others, 
and  exactly  the  same  and  according  to  the 
ancient  customs.  First  there  is  the  Cacique, 
chief  officer  of  church  and  state,  priest  of  Monte- 
zuma,  and  director  of  all  temporal  affairs  of  the 
pueblo.  It  is  not  known  how  the  Cacique  was 
originally  installed  in  his  office,  he  alone  having 
power  to  appoint  his  successor — which  duty  is 


Laws  and  Customs.  41 

among  the  first  he  performs  after  succeeding  to 
his  office  ;  nor  can  the  most  inquiring  mind  of 
the  most  energetic  newspaper  correspondent  dis- 
cover the  origin  of  their  judicial  system. 

The  Cacique,  aided  by  three  Principales,  se- 
lected by  himself,  appoints  the  Governor  "and  all 
the  officers."  The  appointments  are  communi- 
cated to  the  council  of  Principales,  and  then  pro- 
claimed to  the  people.  No  matter  how  weak 
and  shrunken  in  numbers  the  tribe,  it  still  has  its 
full  corps  of  officers,  all  sons  of  Montezuma, 
though  evidently  many  generations  removed 
from  the  conquering  chiefs  who  reveled  in  the 
jeweled  halls  of  their  illustrious  ancestor. 

The  Governor  is  appointed  by  the  Cacique  for 
one  year,  and  is  the  executive  officer  of  the  town. 
He  is  chief  in  power  and  nothing  can  be  done 
without  the  order  of  the  Governor,  especially  in 
those  things  relating  to  the  political  government. 
The  position  is  purely  honorary  as  regards  salary, 
and  the  honors  do  not  cease  with  the  office,  for 
the  dignified  place  of  Principal  is  awaiting  him 
at  the  close  of  his  term,  and  there  is  no  anti-third 
term  rule  to  prohibit  his  holding  the  place  many 
times  during  his  life. 

Immediately  after  the  Governor  succeeds  to 
his  office  he  repairs  to  Santa  Fe  and  seeks  the 
agent  for  the  Pueblo  Indians  to  receive  confirma- 
tion. This  is  an  empty  ceremony,  the  agent 
being  without  the  authority  to  object  or  remove, 
but  it  isfollowed  in  obedience  to  precedent  and 
custom,  and  there  is  no  harm  in  humoring  the 
ambition  of  the  gentle  wards  of  the  government. 
On  such  days  of  lofty  state  the  happy  fellow,  in 
paint  and  solemn  dignity,  brings  a  silver-headed 
cane,  and  hands  it  to  the  agent,  who  returns  it  to 
the  Governor,  and  the  august  inaugural  ceremony 
is  ended.  Under  the  Mexican  rule,  it  is  said, 
the  new  incumbent  knelt  before  the  Governor  of 


42  The  Land  of  the  Pueblo*. 

the  Territory,  and  was  confirmed  by  a  process  of 
laying  on  of  hands,  and  some  simple  formula  of 
Spanish  sentences. 

The  Principales,  or  ex-Governors,  compose  a 
council  of  wise  men,  and  are  the  constitutional 
advisers  of  the  Governor,  deciding  important 
questions  by  their  vote. 

The  Alguacil,  or  Sheriff,  carries  out  the  orders 
of  the  Governor,  and  is  overseer  and  director  of 
the  public  works. 

The  Fiscal  Mayor  attends  to  the  ordinary  re- 
ligious ceremonies. 

The  Capitan  de  la  Gtierre,  captain  of  war,  with 
his  under-captains  and  lieutenants,  has  very  light 
duty  to  perform  in  these  piping  times  of  peace. 
He  is  head  of  the  ancient  customs,  dances,  and 
whatever  pertains  to  the  moral  life  of  the  people. 
The  several  priests  acting  under  him  order  the 
dances,  and  enforce  special  obedience  of  those 
dedicated  to  any  particular  god  or  ancient  order. 
Each  of  the  officers  has  a  number  of  lieuten- 
ants under  him. 

This  is  a  gallant  array  of  officials  for  such  a 
tribe  as  Tesuque,  numbering  less  than  a  hundred, 
or  Pojouque,  in  all  twenty-six,  or  Zia  fifty-eight 
haughty  aborigines.  I  have  not  been  able  to  find 
if  they  have  badges  and  insignia  of  office,  but  I 
do  know  they  strut  along  the  streets  of  Santa 
Fe  as  though  they  were  at  the  head  of  tribes  like 
the  sands  of* the  sea-shore,  like  the  leaves  of  the 
forest,  the  stars  of  heaven,  according  to  the 
swelling  sentences  of  the  proud  speeches  which  our 
early  friend  J.  F.  Cooper  gave  his  heroes.  The 
uniform  worn  is  usually  buckskin  pants,  fringed 
leggins,  moccasins,  and,  in  lordly  defiance  of  the 
prejudices  of  civilization,  with  untaught  grace 
the  Cacique  wears  his  pink  calico  shirt  outside  his 
pantaloons.  It  breezily  flutters  in  the  eternal 
west  wind,  but  the  sun  is  his  father,  the  earth 


Laws  and  Customs.  43 

is  his  mother ;  he  heeds  not  that  cold  breath 
though  it  blow  from  heights  of  perpetual 
snow.  The  tenderness  of  romance  invests  the 
degraded  descendant  of  the  noble  Aztecan,  and 
wherever  he  turns,  the  shades  of  Cooper  and 
Prescott  attend  him. 

As  a  class  the  Pueblos  are  the  most  industrious, 
useful,  and  orderly  people  on  the  frontier ;  at 
peace  with  each  other  and  the  surrounding 
Mexicans.  They  raise  large  crops  of  grain, 
ploughing  with  a  crooked  stick,  the  oriental  imple- 
ment in  the  days  of  Moses,  and  frequently  stir- 
ring the  soil  with  a  rude  hoe,  for  where  irriga- 
tion is  necessary  constant  work  is  required. 
Threshing  is  done  by  herds  of  goats  or  flocks  of 
sheep,  the  floor  being  a  plastered  mud  ring  en- 
closed in  upright  poles.  The  wheat  is  piled  up 
in  the  centre,  the  animals  are  turned  into  the 
pen,  and  driven  round  and  round  until  the  grain 
is  all  trampled  out.  Then  the  mass  is  thrown 
into  the  air;  the  wind  carries  away  the  broken 
straw,  leaving  the  grain  mixed  with  quantities  of 
gravel,  sand,  etc.  It  is  washed  before  being 
ground,  but  the  flour  is  always  more  or  less  gritty. 
They  raise  corn,  beans,  vegetables,  and  grapes, 
the  latter  rich  and  sweet,  and  own  large  herds  of 
cattle  and  sheep.  They  possess  in  common  much 
of  the  best  land  of  the  Territory  which,  for  culti- 
vation, is  parceled  out  to  the  various  families 
who  raise  their  own  crops  and  take  their  pro- 
duce to  market. 

Paupers  and  drones  are  unknown  among  them, 
because  all  are  obliged  to  work  and  make  con- 
tribution to  the  possessions  of  the  community  to 
which  they  belong. 

At  Taos  nearly  four  hundred  persons  live  in 
two  buildings  over  three  hundred  feet  in  length, 
and  about  a  hundred  and  fifty  feet  wide  at  the 
base.  They  are  on  opposite  sides  of  a  little 


44  The  Land  of  the  PuebCos. 

creek,  said  to  have  been  connected  in  ancient 
times  by  a  bridge,  a  grim  and  threatening  fort- 
ress of  savage  strength,  many  times  attacked  by 
the  Spaniards  but  never  captured.  If  there  are 
family  feuds  and  quarrels,  the  outside  world  has 
no  knowledge  of  them  ;  men,  women,  and  child- 
ren, mothers-in-law  and  all,  live  together  in  abso- 
lute harmony.  On  the  highest  story  a  sentinel 
is  posted.  One  might  think  this  ancient  custom 
could  be  dispensed  with  in  the  generation  of 
peace  since  the  American  occupation,  but  they 
hold  the  wise  Napoleonic  idea,  if  you  would  have 
peace  be  always  ready  for  war. 

Each  Pueblo  contains  from  one  to  seven  estu- 
fas,  used  as  a  council-house  and  a  place  of  wor- 
ship, where  they  carry  on  their  heathen  rites  and 
ceremonies,  and  deliberate  on  the  public  weal ;  a 
consecrated  spot  to  which  women  are  not  admit- 
ted ;  a  senate-chamber  where  long  debates  on 
public  affairs  are  maintained,  and  the  business  of 
the  tribe  transacted  by  the  council  of  wise  men, 
cunning  prophets,  and  able  warriors,  whose  duty 
it  is  to  manage  the  internal  affairs  of  the  town. 
The  Governor  assembles  his  constitutional  ad- 
visers in  the  lodge,  where  matters  are  discussed 
and  decided  by  the  majority.  One  of  their  wise 
regulations  is  a  secret  police  whose  duty  is  to 
prevent  vice  and  disorder,  and  report  in  the  un- 
der-ground estufa  the  conduct  of  suspected  per- 
sons. The  dingy  little  ''temples  of  sin,"  as  the 
old  Catholics  call  them,  are  hung  round  with  dim 
and  fading  legends  and  shadowy  superstitions. 
Their  worshipers  have  not  the  slightest  approach 
to  music  in  the  horrible  noises  they  make  there — 
a  kind  of  sledge-hammer  beating  on  rude  drums 
and  blowing  of  ear-splitting  whistles — nor  have 
they  any  idea  of  rhythm  or  poetry.  No  correct 
tradition  is  kept  without  one  of  these  arts,  and 
in  the  absence  of  all  recorded  law  a  perfect  devo- 


Laws  and  Customs.  45 

tion  to  custom  carries  their  poor  civilization  for- 
ward as  it  was  in  the  beginning.  It  keeps  the 
Pueblos  a  separate  and  distinct  people,  bounded 
by  a  dead  wall  of  conservatism  to  this  day. 
Says  the  Rev.  Dr.  Menaul  of  the  Taguna  mission, 
"  Religion  enters  into  everything  they  do,  i.  e. 
everything  is  done  according  to  ancient  custom. 
The  new-born  babe  comes  upon  the  stage  of  life 
under  its  auspices,  is  fed  and  clothed,  or  not 
clothed,  according  to  custom.  It  is  hushed  to 
sleep  with  a  custom-song,  gets  custom-medicine, 
and  grows  up  in  the  very  bosom  of  religious  cus- 
tom. The  father  plants  and  reaps  his  fields, 
makes  his  moccasins,  knits  his  stockings,  carries 
the  baby  on  his  back,  in  fact  does  all  that  he  does  in 
strict  conformity  to  custom.  The  mother  grinds 
the  meal,  makes  the  bread,  wears  her  clothing, 
and  keeps  her  house,  makes  her  water-pots,  and 
paints  them  with  religious  symbols,  according  to 
custom.  The  whole  inner  and  outer  life  of  the 
Indian  is  one  of  perfect  devotion  to  religious  cus- 
tom, or  obedience  to  his  faith."  And  this  adora- 
tion of  the  past  makes  them  the  most  difficult 
of  all  people  to  be  reached  by  outside  influence, 
a  rigid  unbending  adherence  to  old  time  observ- 
ances sets  their  faces  as  a  flint  against  everything 
new  and  foreign,  and  our  mission-work  seems 
dashing  against  a  dead  wall.  Nothing  is  subject 
to  change  among  them  except  language;  they 
have  the  most  shifti  ng  forms  of  human  speech,  so 
the  students  tell  us,  and  desiring  no  improve- 
ment or  alteration,  how  can  we  influence  them  by 
religious  teaching  ?  How  plant  new  ideas  where 
there  is  no  room  to  receive  them  ? 

Of  all  the  millions  of  native  Americans  who 
have  perished  under  the  withering  influence  of 
European  civilization,  there  is  not  a  single  in- 
stance on  record  of  a  tribe  or  nation  having  been 
reclaimed,  ecclesiastically  or  otherwise,  by  arti- 


46  The  Land  of  the  Pueblo* 

fice  and  argument.  Individual  savages  have  been 
educated  with  a  fair  degree  of  success,  but  there 
is  no  tribe  that  is  not  savage.  The  Koran  says, 
"  Every  child  is  born  into  the  religion  of  nature ; 
its  parents  make  it  a  Jew,  a  Christian,  or  a 
Magian."  These  North  American  Indians  are 
more  alike  than  the  children  of  Japhet.  Our 
culture  is  a  failure  offered  to  them,  unless  one  can 
be  detached  from  his  tribe ;  return  him  to  his 
people,  and  he  goes  back  to  the  dances  and  in- 
cantations, the  mystic  lodges  and  time-hallowed 
ceremonials  of  the  fathers.  It  seems  as  difficult 
to  train  him  as  to  teach  the  birds  of  the  air  a 
new  note,  or  the  beaver  another  mode  of  making 
his  dam ;  we  cannot  re-create  the  head  or  the 
heart  of  the  red  man  He  wants  his  freedom, 
his  tribe,  his  ancient  customs ;  he  desires  no 
change,  and  his  sense  of  spiritual  things  is  in- 
stinctive like  a  child's. 

This  rigidity  of  organism  makes  sad  waste  of 
religious  teaching.  Catholic  and  Protestant  have 
been  alike  unsuccessful.  Jonathan  Edwards  fail- 
ed as  signally,  as  the  missionaries  of  the  Territories 
who  have  lived  among  them  for  generations. 
There  is  a  scarce  perceptible  progress.  The 
young  men  have  no  wish  to  be  better  or  different 
from  their  fathers,  and  they  are  slightly  changed 
(can  we  say  for  the  better?)  since  Columbus  gave 
to  Spain  the  gift  of  the  New  World. 

Hardest  of  all  is  it  to  teach  the  Indian  how  di- 
vine a  woman  may  be  made,  and  it  is  argued  that 
women  are  best  fitted  to  reach  the  burden-bearing 
sisters  of  the  red  race.  The  Quakers  succeeded 
no  better  than  the  Puritans,  and  St.  Mary  of  the 
Conception  was  not  more  discouraged  than  the 
self-sacrificing  bride  from  New  England,  who 
comes  to  the  land  of  sand  and  thorn  to  teach  the 
dusky  mothers  how  to  sing  and  sew,  and  broken 
in  health  and  spirit,  returns  to  her  native  hills  again. 


Zuni  War  Club,  Dance  Ornaments,  etc. 


Laws  and  Customs.  47 

In  winter  the  main  industry  of  the  Pueblos  is 
practicing  for  the  public  dances,  a  training  pur- 
sued with  anxious  care  by  the  priesthood  dedi- 
cated to  the  duty,  as  by  the  ambitious  danseuse 
who  fain  would  copy  the  famous  winged  sylphide 
leap  attained  by  the  lithe  limbs  and  flying  feet  of 
Taglioni. 

Their  Te  Deum  after  victories,  and  most 
sacred  and  beloved  rite,  is  the  cachina 
dance,  which  they  celebrate  at  certain  seasons  of 
the  year  with  great  rejoicings.  I  have  never 
seen  it  but  am  told  it  is  full  of  contortions  and 
fantastic  leaps,  ending  in  a  jerky  trot,  unlike 
polka  or  mazurka,  and  still  less  resembling  the 
gliding,  sinuous  action  of  the  world-old  Teutonic 
waltz,  most  delicate  modulation  of  graceful  move- 
ment vouchsafed  the  children  of  men. 

When  the  Spaniards  first  conquered  this 
country  and  imposed  their  religion  on  the  natives, 
the  idolatrous  cachina  was  prohibited  on  pain  of 
death.  History  records  the  natives  held  it  so 
cruel  a  deprivation,  that  the  interdict  was  one  of 
the  main  causes  of  the  great  rebellion  of  1680, 
when  Don  Antonio  de  Oterim  was  Governor  and 
Captain  General  of  Nueva  Espagna.  Many  of 
the  night  dances  are  held  in  the  deepest  secrecy; 
of  these  the  uninitiated  may  not  speak ;  but  other 
holy  days  commemorative  of  abundant  harvests 
are  high  festivals  to  which  citizens  of  Santa  Fe 
are  cordially  invited.  You-pel-lay,  or  the  green 
corn  dance,  is  a  national  thanksgiving  involving 
the  deepest  interest  and  mighty  preparation,  be- 
sides fasting  and  purification.  Some  weeks  be- 
fore the  carnival  we  accepted  an  invitation  from 
the  Cacique  of  Santo  Domingo,  where  unusual 
pomp  and  circumstance  attend  the  celebration  of 
this  harvest  home. 

It  was  in  the  mild  September.  Our  ambu- 
lance was  roomy  and  comfortable,  the  mules 


48  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

were  fresh,  the  party  just  such  as  the  dear  reader 
loves,  the  breeze  sweet  as  the  unbreathed  air  of 
Eden.  I  will  not  tire  your  patience  with  raptures 
about  Rocky  Mountain  sunlight  and  scenery ; 
the  glorious  peaks  are  always  in  sight,  the  aerial 
tints  from  the  hand  of  the  great  Master  are  shift- 
ing and  changeable  as  eastern  skies  at  sunset — 
floating  veils  of  exquisite  hue  hinting  of  a  view- 
less glory  beyond.  The  wagon  road  is  always 
good,  and  with  song  and  story  we  beguiled  the 
way  and  listened  with  eager  interest  to  a  delight- 
ful kgend,  prettily  told  by  a  reporter  from  St. 
Louis,  which  he  said  he  had  from  one  of  the 
medicine  men  of  the  Pueblos.  All  about  "a 
spirit  yet  a  woman,  too,"  who  with  bright  green 
garments  and  silky  yellow  tresses  flits  above  the 
maize  fields,  and  in  the  night,  robed  with  darkness 
as  a  garment,  draws  a  magic  circle  round  them 
to  keep  off  blight  and  vermin. 

It  had  rather  a  familiar  air  and  flavor,  and 
when  the  story  was  ended,  one  of  the  audience 
dryly  inquired  if  the  narrator  had  ever  heard  of 
Longfellow.  St.  Louis  then  came  down  reluct- 
antly and  confessed  to  having  stolen  the  tradition 
from  Hiawatha. 

We  missed  our  way,  and  in  consequence  had 
to  jolt  over  one  bad  hill,  so  steep  and  cut  with 
steps  it  reminded  me  of  the  gigantic  precipitous 
stairs  in  the  flight  of  Israel  Putnam,  a  blood- 
curdling picture  of  affrighted  rider  and  steed,  the 
delight  and  terror  of  my  childhood.  But  this 
was  a  mighty  hill  of  adamant,  on  which  the  flood, 
earthquakes  and  the  centuries  counted  only  in 
heaven  have  beaten  and  spent  their  strength  in 
vain.  We  did  not  care  for  delays.  Time  is  no 
object  on  the  frontier.  We  lag  along  with  exas- 
perating slowness  if  you  want  to  get  through; 
are  not  expected  at  any  place,  sleep  where  the 
night  overtakes  us,  and  loiter  at  will  in  no  fear  of 


Laws  and  Customs.  49 

being  behind  time  or  caught  in  a  shower,  a  hap- 
hazard, good-for-nothing  way  of  travel  which 
gives  a  mild,  game  flavor  to  the  journey.  If  you 
have  a  drop  of  gypsy  blood  in  you  it  will  come 
to  the  surface,  strawberry-mark  and  all,  in  New 
Mexico. 

As  we  neared  the  village  we  passed  pilgrims 
going  up  to  the  jubilee:  men,  women,  children  in 
holiday  attire,  for  once  moved  out  of  their  stony 
rigidity  of  face  and  mien,  smiling  back  to  their 
last  white  molars  in  answer  to  the  courteous  salu- 
tations exchanged  by  wayfarers  everywhere  in 
that  Territory.  The  natives  step  with  an  easy 
swinging  gait,  apparently  untired  at  the  end  of  a 
day's  march  as  in  the  first  hours  of  the  morning. 
Their  figures  in  motion  are  nrt  without  artistic 
grace,  expressing  strength  and  fleetness ;  and 
when  interested  an  alert  intelligence  lights  the 
face,  but  ordinarily  the  cold,  stony  apathy  of  the 
race  is  its  ruling  characteristic.  One  Pueblo 
marching  beside  us  that  day  I  shall  never  forget. 
He  was  a  very  model  of  sinewy  strength,  a  per- 
fect mountain  prince,  erect  and  stately  in  his 
crown  of  green  leaves,  and  striped  Navajo  blanket 
draping  his  shoulders,  held  in  place  by  one  sym- 
metric hand.  "The  noblest  Roman  wore  his  im- 
perial mantle  with  no  better  grace.  The  attri- 
tion of  civilization  fails  to  make  our  aborigines  at 
all  like  "the  white  brother."  These  peace-loving 
Pueblos,  a  pastoral  people  pursuing  their  simple 
industries  and  trudging  to  market  with  their  poor 
products,  are  as  thoroughly  Indian  as  the  wildest 
Apache,  with  brandished  knife  and  dripping 
scalp  in  hand,  dancing  on  the  battle  field  and 
whooping  in  triumph  over  the  banquet  of  blood. 

After  leaving  the  Israel  Putnam  hill  we  crossed 
a  mesa  or  table-land,  and,  descending  into  the 
valley  of  the  Del  Norte  descried  the  village  of  the 
Santo  Domingo,  a  tribe  which  numbers  in  all 


50  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

1,129  souls.  A  little  way  off  the  main  road,  on 
the  bank  of  the  river,  are  the  adobe  houses,  two 
stories  high  with  the  usual  terraces.  The  roofs 
are  supported  by  pine  logs,  are  nearly  flat  and 
covered  with  bark  and  earth.  A  few  miles  away 
are  the  ruins  of  ancient  Pueblos,  crumbling  walls 
whose  thickness  attests  their  age.  Like  all  the 
prehistoric  buildings,  they  are  on  a  high  bluff 
two  hundred  feet  above  the  water.  All  ruins 
have  a  certain  pathetic  interest,  but  we  did  not 
turn  aside  to  visit  these,  knowing  it  would  be 
only  a  repitition  of  arrowheads,  stone  hatchets 
and  the  tiresome  pottery  fragments.  The  old 
arrowheads  are  mainly  obsidian,  (iztli)  usually 
black,  sometimes  a  smoky  or  brown  tint.  They 
are  strewed  through  the  earth  wherever  graves  of 
men  have  been  found.  To  borrow  the  forcible 
sentence  of  Holmes,  "Whether  the  arrowheads 
are  a  hundred  or  a  thousand  years  old  who 
knows,  who  cares?  There  is  no  history  to  the 
red  race,  there  is  scarcely  an  individual  in  it.  A 
few  instincts  on  legs  and  holding  a  tomahawk; 
— there  is  the  Indian  of  all  time." 

We  saw  a  party  that  day  hunting  rabbits  with 
dubs  which  they  throw,  making  a  whirring  sound 
like  the  boomerang  of  eastern  savages.  It  is  the 
one  sport  in  which  women  are  allowed  to  take 
part.  If  in  whirling  his  missile  a  warrior  misses 
a  rabbit,  which  is  finally  killed  by  a  squaw,  he  is 
obliged  by  law  or  custom,  which  is  equally  strong, 
to  change  clothes  with  her,  and  they  return  to 
the  pueblo,  or  village,  in  that  guise;  Hercules 
and  Omphale.  He  must  also  keep  her  in  fresh 
meat  during  the  next  winter,  serving  out  his 
term  of  degradation  in  feminine  belongings,  a 
target  for  aboriginal  wit,  and, for  the  season,  the 
village  fool.  Under  such  humiliating  penalty  for 
failure,  we  may  imagine  the  experts  throw  the 
club  with  wondrous  care  and  skill  when  women 
join  in  the  chase, 


Laws  and  Customs.  51 

This  joke  is  immemorially  old,  handed  down 
from  the  ancients  or  fathers,  and  is  immortally 
fresh  and  delightful,  tickling  the  fancy  of  the  red 
man. 

On  both  sides  of  the  river  run  chains  of  hills, 
those  on  the  west  side  extending  inland  in  ex- 
tensive mesas;  and  not  very  far  away  to  the 
southeast  we  trace,  in  aerial  tints  of  supreme 
beauty,  the  serrated  ridges  of  the  Sandia  moun- 
tains. 

Properly  speaking  there  are  but  two  valleys  in 
New  Mexico ;  the  Rio  Grande  and  the  Pecos. 
Should  either  stream  go  dry,  starvation  and  fam- 
ine would  follow.  They  flow  nearly  parallel,  from 
north  to  south,  fifty  and  sixty  miles  apart,  till 
they  reach  Texas.  Skirting  their  banks  are  the 
cultivated  fields,  making  a  garden  beauty  with 
their  tender  verdure  in  contrast  with  the  dull 
green  of  dry  plains. 

By  the  city  of  the  saint  sat  a  feminine  mummy 
selling  grapes.  Her  head  was  dressed  by  the 
hands  of  time  and  nature  after  the  style  of  Elisha, 
which  so  diverted  the  bad  boys  of  Bethel,  and 
she  looked  immovable  as  the  dead. 

She  and  her  store  of  fruitage,  were  sheltered 
from  the  sun  blaze  in  a  booth  of  pine  boughs ; 
a  little  green  bower  called  by  the  orientals 
succoth,  a  refreshment  to  the  eyes  in  the  shade- 
less  stretch  of  the  parched  valleys.  The  wattle 
of  twigs  and  leaves  is  such  as  Israel  made  for 
himself  in  Canaan,  and  men  of  Galilee  wove 
together  of  thick  foliage  on  the  pleasant  skirts  of 
Olivet,  when  they  came  up  to  Jerusalem  at  the 
feast  of  the  Passover;  such  as  the  Sharon  peasant 
yet  builds  for  his  family  at  the  Jerusalem  gate  of 
Jaffa.  There  was  much  beside  this  shady  spot  to 
remind  us  of  Bible  pictures ;  the  low  adobe  houses, 
the  flocks  with  the  herdsman  coming  to  drink  at 
the  shallow  stream,  the  clambering  goats  in 


52  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

scanty  pastures  high  up  the  rocks,  shaking  their 
beards  at  the  passing  strangers,  the  kids  bleating 
by  their  mothers,  the  Mexican  women,  straight 
as  a  rule,  carrying  water-jars  on  head  or  shoul- 
der, like  maidens  of  Palestine.  Now  and  then 
an  old  black  shawl,  melancholy  remnant  of  the 
gay  rebosa,  shrouding  an  olive  forehead,  sug- 
gested the  veiled  face  of  the  gentle  Rebecca. 
The  lofty  presence,  the  high  eagle  features  of  the 
Jewish  race,  the  lustrous  eyes  of  the  Orient  are 
not  here,  nor  is  the  barren  magnificence  of  New 
Mexico  more  than  a  suggestion  of  the  land  once 
the  glory  of  all  lands,  with  its  verdure  of  plumy 
palms,  beauty  of  olive  orchards,  the  dark  foliage 
of  cypress  trees,  and  white  and  scarlet  blooms  of 
orange  and  pomegranate. 

These  thoughts  pass  through  our  mind  as  we 
wait  in  the  wagon  while  the  driver,  a  Mexican 
boy,  bargains  with  Pharoah's  daughter  for  the 
day's  supply  of  grapes.  We  get  three  fine 
bunches  for  five  cents,  rich  and  nourishing, 
grown  in  sandy  river  bottoms  irrigated  with  al- 
kali water.  They  are  sweet  as  the  ripest  Italian 
vintage  in  terraced  vineyards,  warmed  by  the 
volcanic  heat  throbbing  in  the  fiery  heart  of  Ve- 
suvius. 

For  market,  the  purple  clusters  are  laid  lightly 
in  crates  made  of  pine  branches  thick  as  your 
thumb,  bound  together  by  green  withes  of  bark, 
lined  with  fresh  leaves  and  packed  on  the  backs 
of  burros,  the  scriptural  ass.  The  vine  is  not  al- 
lowed to  run,  but  is  kept  trimmed  close  to  the 
ground.  Every  year  the  branches  are  cut  near 
to  the  parent  stock,  which  is  rarely  more  than 
four  feet  high. 

The  forlorn  little  town,  built  round  a  central 
plaza,  was  swept  and  garnished  ready  for  the 
holiday,  and  having  shaken  off  its  usual  drowse 
appeared  quite  lively.  We  were  escorted  with 


Laws  and  Customs.  53 

much  dignity  to  an  honored  seat  on  one  of  the 
flat  roofs  reached  by  a  rickety  ladder.  There 
the  ancient  patriarchs  of  the  tribe,  too  old  to  take 
the  field,  were  gathered,  and  with  them  old 
witches  without  witching  ways,  wrinkled,  with- 
ered, graceless,  seated  in  the  favorite  aborgi- 
nal  pose  on  their  heels.  The  preliminary  cere- 
mony was  held  a  few  days  before,  when  the  first 
ears  of  corn  began  to  ripen.  They  were  gathered 
by  the  women,  and,  like  the  Jewish  first  fruits, 
the  wave-offering  in  the  temple,  were  brought 
with  solemn  reverence  to  the  high  priest,  who 
alone  has  the  right  to  husk  them  for  ascertaining 
if  the  promise  of  a  fair  harvest  is  assured.  This 
done,  criers  were  sent  through  the  town  an- 
nouncing to  the  people  that, from  his  bright  sun- 
house  the  god  of  the  Pueblos  had  smiled  upon 
his  children  in  bountiful  crops,  and  they  must 
meet  at  high  noon  on  a  certain  day  and  render 
unto  him  thanksgiving  and  praise. 

The  burning  sky  of  noon,  where  no  cloud 
flings  a  cooling  shadow,  scorches  the  valley  with 
tropic  fervor,  but  these  children  of  the  wilderness 
love  its  parching  heat  and  open  the  solemnities 
when  the  flooding  light  is  at  meridian. 

In  the  centre  of  the  open  plaza  four  large 
camp-kettles  of  boiling  corn  were  swung  gypsy 
fashion  over  separate  fires.  The  tops  of  the 
poles  were  adorned  with  twelve  ears  of  corn  rep- 
resenting the  twelve  months  of  the  year.  Each 
one  was  watched  by  four  men,  naked  to  the 
waist,  with  bodies  painted  white,  red,  green,  and 
blue.  They  are  the  four  seasons,  and  are  elected 
for  their  skill  in  singing  and  great  powers  of  en- 
durance. Their  duty  was  to  dance  round  the 
kettles,  keep  up  the  fires,  and  sing  songs  to  Mon- 
tezuma  and  the  unnamed  god,  keeping  time  with 
a  cornstalk  on  the  edge  of  the  kettle.  Did  my 
reader  ever  hear  Indian  singing?  He  need  never 


54  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

want  to.  It  is  a  long-continued  strain  of  un- 
earthly howls  and  yells  of  the  sort  to  drive  one 
crazy,  to  make  your  flesh,  aye,  the  very  marrow 
of  your  bones  creep. 

At  exactly  noon  the  grand  procession  moved, 
led  by  three  Sagamores,  holy  heralds  marching 
ahead,  solemn  and  still  as  sphinxes.  Then  came 
thirty-five  men,  the  dancers  proper,  naked  except 
a  small  embroidered  blanket,  but  appearing  clad 
by  reason  of  a  coating  of  white  paint  barred  with 
blue.  Their  legs  and  arms  were  striped  with 
red,  white,  and  blue ;  green  hemlock  wreaths 
mixed  with  red  berries  of  the  mistletoe  circled 
their  arms  above  the  elbow. 

The  same  ornamentation  served  as  bracelets, 
anklets  and  necklaces,  and  resting  on  the  thick 
black  locks,  newly  washed  with  amole  and  glossy 
as  a  blackbird's  throat,  were  crowns  of  gray  eagle 
plumes.  The  effect  of  this  adorning  was  that  of 
a  festal  robe,  unique  and  strikingly  picturesque. 
Around  the  knees  of  the  main  actors  were  bands 
of  red  cloth  to  which  hung  small  shells  of  the 
ground-turtle,  eagle  claws,  and  antelope  hoofs ; 
and  dangling  from  the  back  at  the  waist  was  a 
fox  tail  or  a  fur  robe,  the  skin  of  such  wild  ani- 
mals as  were  killed  by  the  wearer  during  the 
year.  They  walked  in  Indian  file,  each  appear- 
ing to  tread  in  the  same  track,  bending  forward 
as  if  weighted  down  with  corn,  which  fiction  is 
part  of  the  play. 

The  musicians  were  placed  in  a  conspicuous 
part  of  the  plaza  in  the  chief  seats  of  the  syna- 
gogue such  artists  love.  One  had  a  drum,  (tombe) 
which  he  beat  unmercifully,  another  clashed 
clanging,  banging  things  like  cymbals,  and  a  cas- 
tinet  player  dextrously  rattled  deer  hoofs  after 
the  manner  of  the  jolly  end  man,  our  friend  and 
brudder  Bones.  One  ambitious  artist  performed 
on  an  ornamented  whistle  made  from  the  bone  of 


Laws  and  Customs.  55 

a  wild  turkey's  wing,  blowing  shrilly  with  unlim- 
ited breath,  as  St.  Louis  observed,  sotto  voce,  loud 
enough  to  split  the  ears  of  corn.  There  was,  be- 
sides, a  heathenish  intrument  of  torture,  whose 
name  I  failed  to  obtain,  consisting  of  half  a  gourd 
with  the  convex  side  up  ;  on  this  was  placed  with 
the  left  hand  a  smooth  stick  and  across  it  the 
right  hand  drew  backward  and  forward  a  notched 
stick  in  a  sawing  manner,  making  a  sound  like 
the  grinding  of  corn  in  the  nictate.  Luckily  this 
machine  does  not  make  much  racket,  but  what 
there  is,  is  of  the  quality  calculated  to  turn  one 
goose-flesh.  The  sound  of  filing  saws  is  rich 
melody  in  comparison. 

The  three  sphinxes,  members  of  the  council 
who  headed  the  procession,  made  a  short  speech 
before  each  house,  the  occupants  being  outside 
and  waiting.  At  special  places  they  joined  the 
choral  howling  of  the  trains,  which  proceeded 
with  the  dire  monotony  of  everything  Indian. 
Thus  they  went  from  house  to  house  till  every 
one  was  serenaded,  and  from  each  roof  corn  was 
handed  and  added  to  the-  common  stock.  My 
knowledge  of  San  Domingan  being  rather  lim- 
ited, I  am  unable  to  furnish  a  correct  report  of  the 
brief  speeches.  Doubtless  they  were  like  white 
men's  public  occasions ;  carefully  prepared  im- 
promptu. These  ended,  they  sung  and  danced 
to  the  plaza,  circling  round  the  boiling  kettles,  in 
one  hand  rattling  a  sacred  gourd  containing 
grains  of  corn,  and  covered  with  tribal  symbols 
and  ancestral  totems  marked  in  red  paint ;  in 
the  other  swinging  a  quantity  of  tortillas  (rolls  of 
corn  bread)  tied  together  with  thread,  like  a 
bunch  of  cigars. 

The  corn  is  a  species  of  the  very  hard  flint. 
The  grains  yellow  or  bluish  black  and  red,  some- 
times all  three  on  one  cob.  The  stalk  is  perhaps 
four  feet  high,  the  ears  growing  near  the  ground. 


56  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

Thin  corn  cakes,  tortillas,  are  the  principal  lood 
of  Mexican  and  Indian,  and  the  women  pride 
themselves  on  the  skill  and  speed  with  which 
they  make  them.  The  shelled  grains  are  boiled 
in  water  with  a  little  lime  to  soften  the  skin  so 
that  it  can  be  pulled  off,  then  it  is  ground  into 
meal  by  mashing  with  a  long  round  stone,  like 
our  rolling-pin,  against  an  oblong,  slightly  hollowed 
stone  called  a  metate.  A  little  water  is  added, 
making  it  the  consistence  of  gruel,  and  it  is 
baked  in  thin  cakes  on  hot  stones  or  griddles  of 
tin  or  copper.  When  done  they  are  the  color  of 
a  hornet's  nest  and  tasteless  as  white  paper. 
Once  accustomed  to  them  strangers  become  very 
fond  of  tortillas. 

At  an  appointed  signal  the  corn  was  taken 
from  the  kettle,  burnt  in  the  consecrated  fire,  and 
the  ashes  sprinkled  over  the  fields  to  insure  a 
good  crop  next  year ;  then  another  fire  was 
kindled,  and  kettles  re-filled  with  corn,  and  when 
boiled  freely  distributed  to  all  the  people,  who 
heartily  enjoyed  the  banquet. 

Such  is  the  green  corn  dance  ;  a  yearly  de- 
light celebrated  in  the  changeless  fashion  set  be- 
fore these  people  in  the  primeval  years.  New 
and  startling  figures  are  not  in  the  program. 
Their  ambition  is  to  do  all  according  to  the  tra- 
ditions of  the  elders.  As  the  day  advanced  the 
ecstacy  increased,  the  dancers  shuffled  and  hopped 
as  if  they  would  shuffle  off'  this  mortal  coil. 
Convulsive  stamping  and  leaping  made  with  fran- 
tic gestures ;  the  din  of  savage  minstrelsy ;  the 
guttural,  unrhythmed  voices  and  the  hideous 
"toinbe"  a  hollow  log  covered  at  the  ends  with 
dried  hide,  made  a  barbaric  uproar  that  lingers 
long  on  senses  attuned  to  harmony. 

I  must  not  close  without  mention  of  the  dogs 
of  You-pel-lay.  Admitted  to  that  equal  sky, 
they  were  given  the  right  to  a  voice  in  the  mat- 


Laws  and  Customs.  57 

ter  and  toward  evening  they  embarked  in  a 
tumultuous,  unearthly  fantasia.  As  we  scaled  the 
Israel  Putnam  hill  the  soft  night  wind  fell  on  our 
hot,  tired  faces  like  the  cool  touch  of  holy  water, 
and  floated  after  us  the  farewell  symphonies  of 
the  revelry.  And  they  were  all  pow-wow  and 
bow-wow. 

Perhaps  the  classic  reader,  if  I  am  so  fortunate 
as  to  have  one,  may  be  reminded  in  this  festival 
of  the  haunted  vale  of  Enna  and  its  lovely  fables  ; 
mythic  stories  filled  with  hidden  meaning  veiled 
by  the  splendors  of  the  Eleusinian  mysteries.  It 
is  the  instinctive  spirit  of  gratitude  to  the  Lord 
of  the  harvest,  the  keeper  of  the  destinies ;  and 
the  poverty  of  this  race  and  their  rude  rites  are 
to  the  genius  and  varied  wealth  of  ancient  Greece 
only  the  difference  of  blood  and  civilization 
everywhere  between  the  Old  World  and  the  New. 

The  squaws  wear  no  wreaths  and  have  no  share 
in  these  ceremonials,  but  adoring  women  are  the 
same  the  world  over,  and  out  of  their  own  hearts 
create  the  glory  and  beauty  of  the  shrines  where 
they  burn  precious  incense  and  kneel  for  wor- 
ship. They  looked  on  in  secret  rapture  with 
love-light  in  their  eyes,  an  expression  I  have 
seen  in  the  face  of  a  listening  wife  in  the  senate 
gallery,  when  the  man  foremost  of  all  the  world 
to  her  speaks  the  words  which  thrill  the  crowd  to 
silence.  In  Santo  Domingo  there  is  no  noiseless 
telegraphy  of  swimming  eye  or  waving  hand. 
Little  does  the  sullen  red  sachem  care  for  the 
subtle  flattery  of  loving  admiration. 


58  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

CHAPTER  IV. 

THE  CITY  OF  THE  PUEBLOS. 

TEN  generations  of  men  have  come  and  gone 
since  Don  Antonio  de  Espego  distilled  a  subtle 
Spanish  essence  in  El  Palacio ;  and  you  may 
break,  you  may  shatter  those  walls,  if  you  will, 
but  the  scent  of  Espagna  will  hang  round  it  still. 
Under  the  witchery  of  that  fast-fading  charm,  a 
troop  of  attendant  graces  hover  about  its  portal. 
They  bear  musical  names  of  sweet  meaning,  as 
the  discreet  damsels  who  welcomed  pilgrims  to 
the  blessed  rooms  in  the  House  Beautiful.  Per- 
fectio  (perfection),  a  worthless  peon,  in  Navaho 
blanket,  sweeps  the  sidewalk  ;  Benito  (the  good), 
a  shambling  Mexican  boy,  watching  his  chance 
for  a  spring  at  the  spoons,  brings  the  daily  mail ; 
Mariposa  (butterfly),  the  silliest  of  Slowboys, 
pushes  the  baby-wagon;  while  Angellus,  an 
angel  whose  form  has  lost  its  original  brightness, 
lazily  watches  her.  Three  old  witches,  whom  we 
familiarly  call  the  Macbeths,  were  baptized  some 
centuries  ago  Feliciana,  the  Happy ;  Rosita,  little 
Rose;  Hermosa,  the  Beautiful. 

It  is  the  month  of  July,  and  the  cotton- wood 
trees  of  the  Plaza  are  a  mass  of  tender  leafage  in 
restless  flutter,  giving  color  and  cool  sound,  most 
grateful  in  a  land  where  sterility  is  the  rule,  fer- 
tility the  rare  and  marked  exception.  The 
acequias  are  open,  and  they  moisten  earth  and 
air  in  the  square  of  alfalfa,  or  Spanish  clover, 
knee-deep. 

Quite  out  of  reach  of  the  shady  trees,  in  the 
fiercest  blaze  of  the  sun,  sitting  on  a  fragment  of 
the  Rocky  Mountains,  is  a  statuesque  figure, 
which  might  represent  the  oldest  of  the  Fates, 


The  City  of  the  Pueblos.  59 

the  most  furious  of  the  Furies.  It  is  Blandina, 
the  fair  one,  the  soft  one,  of  Santa  Fe.  Her  face, 
like  one  of  her  own  foot-hills,  is  worn  into  gutters 
and  seams.  Not  like  them  so  moulded  by  the 
action  of  water,  but  by  exposure  to  sharp  sun- 
light and  withering  wind,  destructive  to  beauty, 
which  make  even  young  persons  appear  old. 
Her  skin  is  a  parchment,  which  looks  as  though 
it  might  date  back  to — I  was  about  to  say  the 
Flood ;  but  that  would  imply  that  at  some  pre- 
historic era  she  had  felt  the  sanitary  influence  of 
a  shower-bath,  and  I  would  not  harm  an  inno- 
cent fellow-creature  by  such  an  unjust  suspicion. 
Her  draperies  are  a  mere  dissolving  view.  There 
sits  the  Mexican  woman,  day  after  day,  not 
begging,  nor  even  reaching  out  her  hand,  but 
following  the  passer-by  with  beseeching  eyes, 
haunting  as  the  eyes  of  the  dead.  Like  all  the 
very  poor,  she  keeps  a  dog  and  smokes  inces- 
santly. 

The  great  mass  of  population  here  is  very 
swarthy,  and  there  are  but  few  who  have  no 
Indian  blood  in  their  veins.  The  traveller  in  New 
Mexico  may  breakfast  in  a  ranche  where  the  oc- 
cupants have  the  clear  cinnamon  hue;  dine  at 
another  where  the  faces  are  ashen,  like  the 
Malay's;  and  pass  the  night  at  a  third  where 
the  courteous  host  will  show  the  deep  Vandyke 
brown  of  the  Negro.  The  explanation  is  easy. 
The  different  inhabitants  of  the  several  places  are 
sprung  from  various  tribes.  The  Ute  has  a  dingy, 
tallow  complexion,  the  Apache  is  a  dirty  ashen 
gray,  while  the  Mohave  girls  have  cheeks  of 
almost  Spanish  transparency. 

Besides  the  luxuries  and  refinements  of  the 
furthest  East,  the  Moors  left  behind  them  in 
Spain  many  descendants,  the  children  of  Spanish 
marriages.  Some  of  these  were  among  the 
dauntless  adventurers  who  came  to  Nueva  Mejico 


60  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

in  the  XVIth  century.  They  intermarried  with 
the  Indians,  mingling  three  strains  of  blood, 
which  mixture  is  called  Mexican.  The  conquer- 
ing foreigners  were  not  all  olive-skinned.  Some 
of  the  first  who  sailed  the  sea  boasted,  and  evi- 
dently were,  of  the  sangre  azid,  brought  into 
Spain  by  the  wild  Goths.  The  lover  of  Prescott 
will  remember  his  description  of  the  watchful 
gray  eyes  of  Cortez,and  the  clear  blue  eyes  of 
Alvarado,  whose  yellow  locks,  fair  forehead,  and 
beard  yellow  as  gold,  gave  him  a  peculiar  expres- 
sion of  sunniness,  from  which  the  Aztecs  called 
him  Tonitiah—"  Child  of  the  Sun."  Scattered 
at  long  distances  through  New  Mexico  are  a  few 
ricoSy  of  almost  Saxon  fairness,  remote  descendants 
of  the  people  who  brought  the  exquisite  archi- 
tecture of  Asia  to  perfect  flower  in  the  shades  of 
the  Alhambra — departing  traces  of  the  northern 
tribes  to  which  southern  Europe  owes  some  of 
its  best  elements  of  strength.  Their  blue  eyes, 
glancing  from  under  the  slouched  sombrero,  and 
sunburnt  hair,  stringing  down  the  serape,  affect 
one  strangely.  It  is  like  finding  Albinos  among 
the  Zuni  and  Moqui  Indians,  and  involuntarily 
we  ask:  "What  manner  of  men  are  these?" 
Tawny  color  is  seen  in  every  grade  of  society  and 
some  of  the  highest  citizens  are  plainly  of  Indian 
extraction.  The  restless  energy  of  the  Spaniard, 
the  quick  preception  of  the  Moor,  even  the  cun- 
ning of  the  roving  Apache,  appear  to  be  lost  in  the 
sluggish  current  which  lazily  beats  in  the  pulses 
of  the  modern  Mexican. 

Among  the  common  people  is  one  distinguish- 
ing trait,  the  utter  lack  of  beauty.  I  have  fre- 
quented every  day  crowds,  and  haunted  churches, 
where  they  are  to  be  seen  at  their  best,  and  have 
found  not  one  attractive  face.  Nowhere  on  earth 
comes  age  so  fast  or  in  such  repulsive  shape.  A 
lovely  baby  changes  to  the  plain  young  girl, 


The  City  of  the  Pueblos.  61 

somewhat  comely,  at  fifteen.  At  twenty-five  not 
a  vestige  of  freshness  remains ;  not  a  line  to  re- 
mind one  of  beauty  vanished  forever.  And  oh! 
the  hideous  hags  squatted  against  the  walls! 
There  is  no  speculation  in  those  eyes,  fixed  as 
the  eternal  gaze  of  the  Sphinx.  They  look  old 
as  that  grim  female,  and  I  would  as  soon  think 
stone  lips  could  part  into  a  company  smile,  dis- 
playing false  teeth,  as  that  these  could  break  into 
laughter  or  song.  I  wonder  what  they  are 
thinking  about,  if  they  think  at  all,  or  if  an  earth- 
quake would  make  them  jump.  Assuredly,  they 
are  the  most  opaque  of  terrestrial  bodies,  and, 
under  the  old  black  shawl,  they  sit  immovable, 
as  though  all  the  forces  of  the  universe  (rarely 
heard  from  in  Santa  Fe)  could  not  start  them 
from  their  secure  poise. 

Dr.  Holmes  says  "  the  finest  human  fruit,  and 
especially  the  finest  women,  we  get  in  New  Eng- 
land are  raised  under  glass.  Protection  is  what 
the  transplanted  Aryan  requires  in  this  New 
England  climate."  I  fancy  "protection"  is  what 
the  women  needs  in  the  "excessive,"  the  terri- 
torial climate  analogous  to  that  of  Central  Asia. 
On  this  bleak,  elevated  plateau,  where  the  dry- 
ness  is  so  intense  that  meat  is  cured  without 
smoke  or  salt,  the  juices  of  the  human  body  evapo- 
rate, leaving  early  wrinkles.  I  have  seen  men 
in  high  health  return  from  a  month  of  camping 
among  the  Rocky  Mountains  with  crow's  feet 
wofully  deepened  and  the  appearance  of  having 
"  aged  "  in  a  very  short  time. 

Perhaps  dirt  and  low  diet  have  helped  to  finish 
the  completed  ugliness  of  the  Santa  Fe  witches ; 
but  we  know  extremes  of  every  sort  waste  ner- 
vous force,  and  hasten  the  steps  of  the  common 
enemy,  who  sharpens  his  scythe  for  the  faces  of 
women,  and  shakes  the  sand  in  the  glass  when  he 
measures  their  years. 


62  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

Moisture,  when  it  does  come,  is  not  the  gentle 
rain  from  Heaven,  swelling  bud  and  flower,  as 
well  as  human  hearts,  to  thankfulness.  There 
is  no  dew ;  nor  is  there  showering  mist,  like  that 
which  went  up  from  the  earth  and  watered  the 
garden  eastward  in  Eden.  •  We  have,  instead, 
high  wind-storms,  rain  streaming  in  torrents,  pre- 
ceded by  an  atmosphere  where  men  and  animals 
are  acting  lightning-rods  for  electric  currents  ; 
keen,  close  lightning  and  the  "  &v  thunder  "  of 
which  Byron  sung.  Suddenly  the  mighty  music 
stops.  The  sun  flashes  out  in  unveiled  splendor, 
flooding  the  world  with  blinding  light,  and  we 
are  tempted  to  tread  a  sun-dance  in  worship  of 
the  glittering  God  of  the  Pueblos,  who  inhabits 
eternity,  lord  of  Heaven  and- earth,  son  of  the 
morning  and  father  of  all  the  days. 


CHAPTER  V. 

MEXICAN  COTTAGES. 

ACROSS  the  way  are  a  dozen  Mexicans,  wrapped 
in  greasy  old  blankets,  sitting  like  four-and- 
twenty  blackbirds  all  in  a  row.  I  know  their 
faces,  and  have  not  missed  one  in  a  month. 
They  live  in  condition  of  body  and  mind  hard 
for  an  American  to  realize.  A  kind  of  present 
existence,  without  loving  reference  to  the  past ; 
a  passive  waiting  for  the  future,  without  an  in- 
quiry or  a  wish,  a  fear  or  a  hope.  Small,  lank, 
dark-brown  fellows ;  eight  with  high  cheek- 
bones and  thick  lips,  betraying  Indian  blood; 
hair  long,  straight,  black ;  eyes  dark,  suspicious, 
wavering;  habitually  silent;  when  speaking, 


Mexican  Cottages.  63 

with  gloomy  indifference,  in  a  voice  sad  as  mem- 
ory. Elsewhere  they  would  go  as  tramps ;  but 
tramping  is  a  grand  fatigue.  They  prefer  to  sit 
round,  instead. 

It  is  said  this  is  the  bearing  of  every  con- 
quered race ;  but  such  is  the  average  Mexican 
wherever  he  is  found.  About  the  hill  of  royal 
Chapultepec,  at  the  base  of  the  pyramid  of 
Cholula — last  vestige  of  Aztecan  grandeur — he 
basks  in  the  sun  with  the  chameleons  and  lizards, 
docile  in  temper,  patient  under  abuse,  idle  as  the 
wind  that  lifts  his  long,  black  locks.  Think  you 
such  men  care  for  advantages,  natural  or  politi- 
cal— They  know  the  joy  of  a  splendid  destiny  ful- 
filled or  the  anguish  of  such  a  destiny  lost? 
They  come  of  brave  blood — Spaniard,  Moor, 
Indian — and  how  well  they  fight  for  their  own, 
the  United  States,  France,  and  Austria  may  tes- 
tify ;  but  to  us  never  did  life  appear  so  empty, 
aimless,  and  joyless  as  the  life  of  these  sitters  in 
the  sun. 

The  puzzling  question  of  to-day  is  :  How  do 
they  keep  soul  and  body  together  ?  Let  us  find 
one  in  his  home,  if  the  dingy  den  he  inhabits 
may  be  called  by  that  dear  name.  Leaving  the 
Plaza,  where  vagrants  most  do  congregate,  we 
pass  the  cottages  of"  the  military  "  (on  whose 
heads  be  the  blessing  of  those  who  entertain 
strangers),  cross  a  sandy  array  a,  through  which  in 
the  rainy  season  a  mountain  torrent  sweeps  roar- 
ing. Westward  the  straggling  suburb  stretches 
toward  the  foothills,  and,  stumbling  along  a  stony 
path,  we  suddenly  come  up  against  a  wall.  It 
is  about  six  feet  high,  made  of  mud  mixed  with 
ashes,  coal,  cow-horns,  hoofs,  mule-bones,  barrel- 
hoops,  the  wheels  of  a  baby- wagon,  cans,  broken 
bottles,  boots,  curry-combs,  every  refuse  sub- 
stance that  may  swell  the  mass  in  a  treeless  re- 
gion. The  top  of  the  wall  bristles  with  scraps  of 


64  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

tin,  which  make  it  hard  to  climb.  I  doubt  if 
Romeo  would  try  it,  even  to  seize  the  white 
wonder  of  Juliet's  hand.  The  gate  is  made  of 
upright  posts  of  dwarf  cedar,  thick  as  a  man's 
wrist,  bound  together  by  rawhide  strings,  and 
groans  and  creaks  in  a  dismal  note  as  we  push 
it  on  wooden  hinges.  Not  a  trace  of  iron  is  to 
be  seen. 

This  formidable  outwork  encloses  three  pup- 
pies, of  the  breed  called  cast-iron,  which  look 
like  magnified  rats  and  act  wonderfully  like  cats. 
The  proprietor  of  the  estate  and  his  spouse,  in 
the  doorway,  sit  in  the  artistic  pose  called  squat, 
at  leisure  profound,  if  not  elegant.  He  is  evi- 
dently made  of  the  same  clay  as  his  wretched 
mud  shanty ;  might  have  sprouted  up  from  the 
ground  or  dropped  down  from  the  eaves. 

As  we  enter,  they  rise  in  unembarrassed  polite- 
ness. He  removes  his  slouch  of  a  hat  with  de- 
corous gravity,  and  the  wife  entreats  us  to  enter, 
saying,  with  the  air  of  a  princess  in  exile,  we  do 
her  great  honor.  The  Spanish  flavor  is  strong 
here,  which  may  be  the  reason  she  wears  drag- 
ging bright  calicoes  all  the  year,  and  sits  in  the 
door  even  when  the  snow  falls.  Her  raven  black 
hair  and  large,  full  eyes  hint  of  by-gone  beauty ; 
but  it  is  by-gone.  Premature  wrinkles  are  worn 
deep  by  the  shriveling  wind,  her  skin  is  swart 
and  sunburnt,  and  the  roses  in  her  cheek  are 
only  ashes  of  roses. 

"Would  she  give  us  a  drink  of  water?" 

"  With  much  pleasure,  Senora." 

She  diffuses  an  air  of  elegance  over  her  pink 
calico  toilet  by  throwing  a  dreary  old  black  shawl 
round  her  head  ;  and,  scorning  to  lift  her  volumi- 
nous train  (twelve  yards  for  a  dollar),  hastens  to 
the  nearest  acequia,  or  irrigating  ditch,  fills  a  mug 
of  Indian  pottery,  and  offers  it  with  sweetness 
and  grace.  No  new  country  exuberance  about 


Mexican  Cottages.  65 

her,  nor  revelling  imagination,  like  Dick  Swiv- 
eller's ;  but  a  power  of  enchantment  and  a  lofty 
self-poise  which  no  surprise  can  startle  or  disturb. 
It  is  found  alike  in  splendor  or  in  squalor,  the 
"  grand  air  "  of  Old  Spain,  descended  to  all  who 
have  a  dash  of  her  blood. 

My  hostess  regrets  the  water  is  not  wine,  and 
so  catching  is  the  fine  charm  that,  ensnared  and 
deluded,  I  am  hardly  sure  it  is  not  wine,  and 
drink  their  health  in  the  miserable  ditch-water 
and  am  cheered  by  responsive  gracias.  I  try  to 
explain  that  I  am  under  silken  bonds — ribbons 
red,  blue,  white — not  to  look  upon  wine  when  it 
is  red  ;  but  it  is  their  first  hearing  of  temperance, 
and  they  do  not  understand.  She  invites  me  to 
a  seat  on  the  colchon — a  wool  mattress  folded 
against  the  wall  and  covered  with  a  blanket, 
which  serves  tfie  double  purpose  of  bed  by  night 
and  sofa  by  day,  an  Oriental  custom,  come  down 
to  them  from  the  Moors.  I  excuse  myself,  being 
in  mortal  fear  of  old  settlers  in  the  mattress. 
There  a  lovely  baby,  with  no  dress  to  speak  of, 
is  tossing  up  its  heels.  I  ask  some  questions, 
thinking  of  bright  eyes  far  away ;  and  she  pret- 
tily says  baby  has  no  year  yet,  and  her  name 
is  Lola  Juanita  Eloisa. 

The  earthen  floor  is  swept  with  a  bunch  of 
broom,  without  handle,  leaning  against  the  mud 
fireplace  in  the  corner  of  the  room.  There  are 
no  andirons,  shovel,  or  tongs,  and  when  fire  is 
made  the  wood  is  placed  on  end  against  the  back 
of  the  fireplace.  A  chest,  a  few  pieces  of  crockery 
on  a  pine  table,  complete  the  furniture.  Can  you 
imagine  love  in  such  a  cottage  ?  Undoubtedly 
there  is  love,  and  in  the  poorest  jacal  there  is  no 
brawling  man,  scolding,  slapping  wife,  or  crying 
baby.  If  the  walls  crack,  they  are  daubed  by 
Magdalena  Rosalia  with  a  fresh  plaster  of  yeso, 
or  gypsum,  put  on  with  a  glove  of  sheepskin.  If 


66  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

the  outside  flakes  and  cracks  too  badly,  it  is 
smeared  with  a  new  coating  of  soft  mud.  In  the 
spring  the  ground  floor  has  another  layer  of  clay, 
the  fireplace  a  thin  coating  of  tierra  amarilla,  or 
yellow  wash,  and  house-cleaning  is  ended.  Does 
the  roof  leak,  a  dab  of  mud  is  slapped  on.  Is 
the  outer  wall  in  holes,  a  lump  of  clay  will  stop 
the  wind  away.  There  is  no  window,  and  when 
the  door  is  closed  the  house  must  be  dark  and 
stifling  as  a  dungeon.  Above  the  fireplace,  done 
in  hectic  chromo  and  framed  in  tin  is  a  copy  of 
the  divine  Madonna  in  the  Louvre,  named  "  Queen 
of  Heaven " ;  a  band  of  blue  stars  across  her 
forehead,  a  tinsel  crescent  under  her  feet.  Hang- 
ing below  it  is  a  plaster  crucifix,  tinder  glass. 
When  the  bell  chimes,  Magdalena  Rosalia  will 
seek  the  old  cathedral,  whose  vaulted  interior  is 
filled  with  shadows  and  silence — «imong  them  a 
few  figures,  motionless  as  the  dead  asleep  under 
the  floors — say  her  prayers  across  the  rosary, 
confess,  and  be  absolved.  But  Trinidad  Gonza- 
lez Ribera,  in  the  gauzy  blanket  and  vanishing 
pantaloons,  will  sit  dozing  in  the  sun,  deaf  to  the 
ringing  music,  unmindful  of  bell,  book,  or  candle. 
I  pass  from  under  the  hospitable  mud  roof  with 
repeated  adios  and  a  feeling  of  unreality.  I  look 
for  a  garden.  There  is  none.  There  are  no 
chickens,  no  pig,  no  cow,  no  grass  within  the 
gravelly  enclosure. 

The  only  sign  of  life  is  a  famished  donkey, 
browsing  on  the  strip  of  grass  which  borders 
the  acequia  by  the  roadside.  He  is  the  property 
of  our  new  friends,  and  occasionally  the  man  of 
many  names  takes  him  to  the  mountains,  loads 
him  with  limbs  of  dead  pmones,  and  sells  them  for 
twenty-five  cents  a  backload.  Stopping  on  the 
plain,  he  digs  a  few  roots  of  amole,  or  soap-weed  ; 
the  yucca  aloifolia,  which  we  cultivate  for  its  rich 
cream- white  blossoms.  This  is  for  the  washing 
done  by  Magdalena  Rosalia. 


Mexican  Cottages.  67 

Do  not  think  she  briskly  knocks  so  early  Mon- 
day morning  or  comes  Sunday  night  for  the 
clothes,  as  wicked  Protestants  have  been  known  to 
do.  No  ;  this  daughter  of  a  proud  line  will  not 
shame  her  high  ancestry  by  vulgar  haste.  She 
saunters  along  about  noon,  seats  herself  at  ease, 
makes  affectionate  inquiries  as  to  every  member 
of  the  household,  with  a  gift  of  continuance  and 
native  talent  for  rigmarole  which  would  do  honor 
to  a  legislative  body.  She  deliberately  ties  the 
bundle  of  clothes,  balances  it  on  her  head,  and 
departs  with  sweeping  courtesy  and  majestic  flirt 
of  pink  calico  train. 

After  walking  a  few  blocks,  she  stops  for  a  rest, 
adjusts  her  bundle  into  a  cushion  on  the  ground, 
takes  from  her  pocket  a  little  package  of  corn- 
husks,  fills  one  with  fine-cut  tobacco  from  a  paper 
box,  rolls  it  into  a  cigarrito*  and  enjoys  a  smoke. 
A  Monday  picture  in  Santa  Fe  is  the  long  row 
of  wash-women,  with  the  everlasting  black 
shawls  over  their  heads,  sitting  in  the  shade  of 
mud  walls,  quietly  gossiping  and  smoking.  To 
get  the  clothes  home  is  exertion  enough  for  one 
day. 

Tuesday  she  repairs  to  the  Rio  Santa  Fe  weak- 
ened by  irrigating  ditches  to  a  shallow  brook,  and 
on  its  sandy  bank  makes  a  little  fire  for  washing. 
Her  machine  is  one  bucket  and  a  square  tin  box. 
She  pounds  the  clothes  between  two  stones.  Flan- 
nels full,  buttons  fly,  embroideries  are  a  dream  of 
things  that  were.  She  boils  them  in  the  box, 
set  on  granite ;  rinses  in  the  pure  snow-water 
of  the  Rio ;  and  spreads  them  on  the  rocks  to 
dry,  as  the  young  Roman  girls  do  along  the 
Tiber.  Friday,  in  comes  Magdalena  Rosalia,  with 
all  beautifully  white,  folded  in  an  Indian  bas- 
ket shaped  like  a  deep  saucer. 

The  proceeds  of  this  labor  buy  a  bag  of  blue 
corn-meal  and  the  necessary  tobacco.  Twice  a 


6S  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

week  they  can  afford  a  stew  of  chili  con  came 
(our  old  friend  hash,  made  fiery  hot  with  red 
pepper)  and  the  living  is  made.  As  respects 
worldly  goods,  come  he  soon  or  late,  Death  will 
find  this  pair  exactly  as  they  entered  life,  exactly 
as  their  fathers  lived  and  died,  in  the  peaceful 
depths  of  contented  poverty.  Magdalena  Rosalia 
walks  as  though  she  was  born  in  the  purple,  to 
live  like  the  lilies  who  toil  not  neither  do  they 
spin ;  and  Trinidad  Gonzalez  Ribera  is  free  of 
care  as  though  his  olcf  Navajo  blanket  was  a 
king's  coronation  robe.  At  the  grave's  edge  it 
not  unfrequently  happens  that  his  mourning 
friends,  too  poor  to  spare  his  blanket,  strip  it 
from  his  body,  and  lay  him  away  in  the  dust  from 
whence  he  sprung,  shroudless  and  uncoffined. 

These  are  the  happy  people  sighed  for  by  weary 
poets  in  all  the  ages.  Simple  souls  who  love  the 
sun,  live  close  to  Nature,  and  in  the  dirt  house, 
to  which  nothing  is  added,  where  nothing  is 
repaired  except  by  additional  dirt,  are  serene  as 
summer,  filled  with  a  measureless  content.  Can 
we  say  so  much  for  the  eager,  ambitious  con- 
queror in  a  struggle,  a  battle,  and  a  race ;  always 
getting  ready  to  live,  looking  to  the  future  when 
he  may  have  time  to  rest  and  enjoy  ? 

The  Mexican  does  not  wait  for  better  times. 
There  is  no  day  but  this.  He  begins  now  and 
the  future  takes  care  of  itself. 

Oh !  tired  woman  of  "  the  States,"  running  on 
your  nerve,  trying  to  do  all  the  public  demands 
of  you  and  all  you  require  of  yourself,  leave  the 
place  where  the  door  bell  rings  every  half  hour. 
Quit  worrying  over  goose-parties  for  the  Sunday- 
school,  Jarley's  wax-works  for  the  firemen  ;  slip 
away  from  strawberry  parties  for  the  Gaboon  Mis- 
sion ;  slacken  the  fevered  rush  ;  loosen  the  strings 
at  concert  pitch  and  ready  to  snap  ;  go  to  the 
Mexican  woman,  consider  her  ways,  and  learn 
how  to  rest. 


To  the   Turquots  Mines.  69 

Of  course,  you,  my  precious  reader,  know 
many  things  she  does  not.  There  never  has 
been  a  woman's  meeting  in  this  territory  of 
207,000  square  miles ;  and,  in  consequence,  the 
weak-minded  creature  is  not  aware  that  men  are 
great  rascals,  rob  women  of  their  rights,  and  bar 
the  avenues  to  wealth  and  fame  against  them. 
Sing  the  Iliad  of  your  woes,  and  it  will  fall  on 
heedless  ears.  And,  though  you  harp  how 
Juliet's  poetry  flew  up  the  kitchen-chimney  and 
Portia's  eloquence  burnt  out  over  the  gridiron 
where  her 

"  red  right  hand  grew  raging  hot, 

Like  Cranmer's  at  the  steak" 

she  would  quietly  adjust  the  old  black  shawl 
(final  remnant  and  melancholy  reminder  of  the 
gay  rebosa)  and  count  the  days  till  the  next 
fiesta. 

There  are  heights  beyond  her  reach,  and  beyond 
your  reach  too,  in  spite  of  mighty  purpose.  She 
does  not  strain  after  them,  wearing  herself  to  skin 
and  bone.  While  you,  who  have  tasted  bitter  fruit 
from  the  tree  of  knowledge,  are  ready  to  die  in  a 
losing  struggle  for  the  unattainable,  she  loiters  in 
happy  valley,  by  good  spirits  tenanted,  and  in 
her  easy  shoe  wears  the  four-leaved  clover  of 
perpetual  content. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

TO  THE  TURQUOIS  MINES. 

READER,  are  you  the  sort  of  person  who  rushes 
through  life  the  first  passenger  on  the  earliest 
train  ;  who  hires  the  fastest  coach  at  Niagara,  to 
exhaust  the  Falls,  the  Whirlpool,  and  Lundy's 
Lane  in  half  a  day,  and  are  then  ready  to  whiz  off 


70  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

in  the  night  express?  If  you  are,  then  are  we 
no  company  for  each  other,  and  may  as  well  part 
at  once.  You  are  entirely  unfit  for  frontier  travel 
and  may  go  this  minute.  Adios!  Adios! 

But  you  who  lingered  by  the  Rapids;  who 
have  a  kindly  glance  for  the  smutty  sentinel  at 
the  brake;  who  do  not  threaten  to  die  when  the 
gentlemanly  conductor  fills  the  car  full  and  corks 
it  tight  as  a  champagne  bottle,  but  live  on  in 
order  to  cheer  a  gasping  fellow-martyr ;  who 
help  the  mediaeval  lady,  of  convex  outline,  trav- 
eling with  two  geraniums  and  a  canary  bird,  yet 
keep  a  sympathetic  eye  for  the  young  pair  in  the 
new  of  the  moon,  murmuring,  as  they  pass,  I 
too  have  dwelt  in  Arcadia. — You  are  the  one  I 
love.  Yours  are  the  feet,  beauteous  on  the 
mountain-top,  that  go  gypsying  with  me  through 
this  New  World,  which  Agassiz  tell  us  is  the 
Old. 

We  travel  in  a  hap-hazard  way,  varied  with 
many  a  digression,  following  no  train  but  our 
own  fancies.  We  stop  to  speak  with  the  natives 
by  the  way,  try  to  sketch  a  Gifford  sunset  on  a 
gritty  scratch-book,  and  stray  from  the  road  for 
bits  of  cheating  mica,  and  for  flowers  which  wilt 
in  the  gathering,  and  change  in  our  hands  to  dry 
stalks  and  grasses. 

The  mountains  are  eternally  beautiful,  always 
changing,  forever  new,  and  all  about  us  is  picture. 
Walking  for  rest,  the  grama  grass  is  soft  and  pleas- 
ant under  the  pilgrim's  feet;  the  sun  always 
shines  ;  the  days  are  like  the  enchanted  rooms  in 
the  fairy  castle,  each  more  beautiful  than  every 
other;  the  air  is  balm,  and  oil,  and  wine. 

There  is  nothing  pleasanter  than  such  travel, 
unless  it  be  to  float  between  blue  and  blue  among 
the  Cyclades,  and  idly  drift  along  the  tideless 
sea,  to  catch  the  far  echo  of  the  syren  songs  that 
wooed  the  wandering  Ulysses. 


To  the  Turquois  Mines.  71 

And  now  for  the  Turquois  Mines. 

To  one  who  was  an  early  and  ardent  admirer 
of  Lalla  Rookh,  the  word  turquois  brings  up 
memories  of  old  or,  rather,  young  days  among 
fragrant  orchard  trees,  meadows  pink  and  white 
with  clover-blooms,  and  a  certain  fine-printed, 
sight-destroying  volume  of  the  poet  whose  hun- 
dredth birthday  we  have  just  celebrated.  It  is 
like  a  fading  dream  to  look  from  the  shadowy 
half-way  house  at  the  girl  embowered  among 
singing  birds,  reading,  with  dazzled  eyes,  of 
swords  inlaid  with  rich  marquetry,  talismans,  and 
characters  of  the  scimitar  of  Solomon.  Arms  of 

"  The  wild  warriors  of  the  Turquois    Hills," 

who  rallied  to  the  white  veil  and  glittering  banner 
of  the  False  Prophet. 

The  perfumed  and  sparkling  poem  which 
thrilled  so  many  soft  hearts  at  life's  morning  is 
not  loved  by  lovers  of  this  age.  Only  the  setting 
generation — and  they  mainly  for  the  sake  of  old 
times — read  "  The  Veiled  Prophet  of  Khorassan," 
and  in  the  twilight  pensively  sing  "Araby's 
Daughter,"  with  voice  not  altogether  fresh.  In 
the  days  when  that  fond  farewell  was  first  sung  it 
was  taught  that  turquoises  belonged  chiefly  to 
the  Turkish  and  Persian  Empires.  Sinte  then 
the  ceaseless  delving  of  the  antiquary  has  given 
to  the  world  such  treasure  far  removed  from  the 
Shah's  dominions.  There  are  mines  of  high 
antiquity  in  Mount  Sinai,  and  a  bronze  finger- 
ring,  of  unique  pattern,  set  with  turquoises,  has 
been  discovered  in  the  Wady  Meghara  of  that 
peninsula.  It  dates  back  to  the  vague,  unreal 
period  of  the  Fourth  Dynasty;  and  amulets  of 
the  same  material  are  unearthed  in  the  ruins  of 
ancient  Egyptian  towns.  They  are  found  in 
Arabia  Petrea,  in  a  stratum  of  red  sandstone,  of 
finer  blue  and  darker  shade  than  the  Persian,  and 


72  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

the  visitor  of  Roman  museums  sees  antique 
cameos  and  intaglios  carved  in  Arabian  turquois, 
sadly  faded  and  tarnished  by  long  burial.  Only 
a  few  in  the  Vatican  still  retain  their  color. 

Those  of  Khorassan  are  sold  in  Russia  on 
sticks,  tied  in  bunches  like  quills,  and  are  in  de- 
mand by  jewelers  of  St.  Petersburg,  for  enriching 
sword-hilts,  handles  of  daggers,  belts,  pipes,  etc. 
The  Shah  is  reported  to  have  in  keeping  all  the 
finest  gems,  allowing  only  the  inferior  grades  to 
leave  the  country. 

In  a  curious  old  treatise  on  precious  stones 
the  turquois  is  described  as  a  delicate  and  sen- 
sitive jewel,  which  has  an  affinity  for  its  owner, 
changing  color  with  his  health  and  varying  for- 
tunes. The  fact  that  they  do  change  color  in  a 
wholly  unaccountable  manner  may  explain  the 
fanciful  notion.  Human  hearts  are  the  same 
everywhere  and  in  all  ages,  and  many  a  myth 
and  superstition  of  the  East  is  reproduced  in 
Mexico — plain  testimony  that  Orientalism  dwells 
not  alone  in  its  sky  and  the  palm  trees  of  the 
valley. 

It  interested  me  greatly  to  find  that  the  pretty 
legend  of  the  Orient  attaches  to  the  turquois 
of  the  New  World,  called  by  the  ancient  Aztec 
chalchilite  (pronounced  chal-chew-e-te). 

Like  the  Asiatic,  the  Aztecan  believed  it 
brought  good  fortune  to  the  wearer,  glowed  in 
sympathy  with  the  healthful  beating  of  his  pulse, 
and  ominously  paled  in  prophecy  of  a  coming 
misfortune.  The  power  of  the  Montezumas  was 
absolute,  as  their  dominion  was  vast ;  and  wher- 
ever the  green  banner  of  the  king  marked  the 
limit  of  his  realm,  the  chalchuite  was,  by  imperial 
decree,  forbidden  to  the  commonalty — the  jewel 
sacred  to  the  royal  house.  When  the  five  am- 
bassadors from  Totonac  came  to  the  tent  of 
Cortez,  at  Vera  Cruz,  they  defied  the  law  (being 


To  the   Turquois  Mines.  J$ 

then  at  war  with  the  fierce  and  bloody  Aztec), 
and  wore  the  proscribed  jewels — "gems  of  a  bright 
blue  stone,  in  their  ears  and  nostrils."* 

Readers  of  Prescott  will  remember  his  pictur- 
esque page  describing  the  city  of  Tezcuco,  where 
North  American  civilization  reached  its  height. 
In  the  royal  palace  was  a  hall  of  justice,  called 
the  "  Tribunal  of  God,"  where  the  judge  decided 
important  causes  and  passed  sentence  of  death, 
seated  on  a  throne  of  pure  gold,  inlaid  with  the 
consecrated  turquois. 

The  art  of  cutting  gems  was  carried  to  high 
perfection  by  the  Aztecs,  and  the  carved  chal- 
chuite  is  noted  by  every  writer  on  the  Spanish 
Conquest. 

Father  Sahagun  calls  it  a  jasper  of  very  green 
color,  "or  a  common  smaragdus,"  so  precious  to 
the  infidel  that  the  use  of  them  was  prohibited 
by  royal  edict  to  any  but  the  nobility.  "  It  rep- 
resented to  them  everything  that  was  excellent 
in  its  kind ;  for  which  reason  they  put  such  a 
stone  in  the  mouth  of  distinguished  chiefs  who 
died,"  like  the  coin  poetry  offered  to  the  grim 
ferryman  of  the  souls  of  the  Greek  dead.f  They 
were  valued  by  the  heathen  above  all  earthly 
possessions,  and,  therefore,  at  first  held  in  great 
estimation  by  the  Spaniards.  The  art  of  polish- 
ing them  came  from  Heaven,  the  gift  of  the  god 
Quetzelcoatl,  a  gentle  deity  who  instructed  the 
Aztecs  in  the  use  of  metals,  agriculture,  and  the 
arts  of  government.  It  was  in  the  golden  age  of 
Anahuac,  when  an  ear  of  Indian  corn  was  as 
much  as  one  man  could  carry,  when  the  air  was 
filled  with  the  melody  of  birds,  the  earth  with 
flowers,  and  cotton  in  the  field  took  of  its  own 

*Prescott's  History. of  the  Conquest  of  Mexico,  Vol.  I. 
"  t  Father  Sahagun  thus  describes  these  precious  stones :  "Las 
chalchuites  son  verdes  y  no  transparentes  mezcladas  de  bianco, 
usanlas,  mucho  lets  principales  trayendolas  las  munecas  atadas  en 
hilOj  y  aquello  es  serial  de  que  es  persona  noble  el  que  las  trae"— 
Hist,  de  Nueva  Espana,  Lib.  ii.  chap.  8. 


74  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

accord  the  rich  dye  of  cochineal.  Cholula  was 
his  favorite  city,  where  the  massy  ruins  of  the 
temple  dedicated  to  his  worship  form  one  of  the 
most  interesting  relics  of  ancient  Mexico.  By 
command  of  the  superior  deities,  he  took  leave 
of  his  worshipers  on  the  shores  of  the  Mexican 
Gulf,  under  promise  to  return,  and,  entering  his 
wizard  skiff,  made  of  serpents'  skins,  sailed  away 
to  the  blooming  shores  of  happy  Tlapallan. 

The  earliest  mention  of  this  historic  gem  is 
made  by  the  honest  old  soldier,  Bernal  Diaz. 
Four  chalchuitcs,  counted  the  most  precious  offer- 
ings from  his  treasury,  were  among  the  first  pres- 
ents sent  by  Montezuma  to  Cortez.  "  A  gift  to 
our  emperor,  designed  as  a  mark  of  highest 
respect,  as  each  of  them,  they  assured  us,  was 
worth  more  than  a  wagon-load  of  gold."  The 
covetous  Spaniard  was  enraptured  with  the  gold- 
dust  and  jewels,  and  gave  in  exchange- — a  sorry 
return  for  the  munificence  of  the  imperial  present 
— a  few  Holland  shirts,  and  a  string  of  trumpery 
beads,  strongly  perfumed  with  musk. 

On  sending  the  priceless  Aztecan  diamonds, 
'•  worth  four  wagon-loads  of  gold,"  to  Valladolid, 
it  turned  out,  rather  awkwardly  for  the  Spaniards, 
that  they  were  not  worth  so  many  wagon-loads  of 
earth. 

The  gossiping  Her  odotus  of  the  New  World 
alludes  to  the  chalchuitc  again  in  his  narrative  of 
the  first  meeting  of  Montezuma  and  Cortez,  on 
the  Causeway,  at  the  entrance  to  Mexico,  city  of 
enchantment.  That  fatal  day,  when  the  force  of 
his  own  genius  brought  the  representative  of  the 
strongest  empire  of  the  Old  World  face  to  face 
with  the  mightiest  monarch  of  the  New,  its  pale 
lustre  shone  dimly  in  the  fringe  of  the  canopy 
held  by  the  Caciques  above  the  hapless  mon- 
arch's head.  "  A  canopy  of  exeeding  great 
value,"  says  the  quaint  chronicler,  "  decorated  with 
green  feathers,  gold  and  silver,  chalchuis  stones 


To  the   7'urgttois  Mines.  75 

and  pearls,  which  hung  down  from  a  bordering 
altogether  curious  to  look  at." 

Its  delicately-traced  veins,  occasionally  of 
greenish  hue,  betray  a  near  kinship  to  malachite. 
This  rich-tinted  mineral  is  finer  than  the  dark- 
colored  stone  of  Russia,  and  though  by  no  means 
costly  as  Shylock's  turquoise,  the  chalclmite  still 
holds  its  high  repute  among  the  various  tribes  of 
the  red  race. 

It  is  valued  by  the  Navajo  beyond  the  garnets 
and  beryls  of  his  own  country,  and  is  used  as 
currency  among  the  half-civilized  Pueblos  of  New 
Mexico  and  Arizona.  The  Indian  girls  along  the 
Colorado  wear  it  is  as  a  love-token  in  their  neck- 
laces ;  the  roving  and  tameless  Apache  covets  a 
blue  bead  as  an  amulet ;  the  degraded  Ute  loves 
its  soft  glimmer ;  and  when  a  Mohave  chief  would 
assume  regal  splendor,  he  sticks  a  three-cornered 
piece  of  chalchuite  in  his  royal  nose. 

Such  associations  fresh  in  mind,  it  was  with 
extreme  pleasure  I  prepared  for  an  excursion  to 
Los  Cerillos,  where  these  blue-eyed  gems  are 
found,  the  only  mines  as  yet  discovered  this  side 
the  Russian  seas.  Twenty -six  miles  southwest 
of  Santa  Fe  are  the  long,  narrow  ranges  of  gold 
and  silver-bearing  mountains — Placer,  Sandia, 
Manzana,  etc. — which  form  an  unbroken  chain 
on  the  eastern  side  of  the  Rio  Grande.  Among 
them  are  three  turquoise  mines,  which  anciently 
supplied  the  Indian  market  of  North  America. 

A  roomy  ambulance,  drawn  by  four  mules ; 
various  delights,  liquid  and  solid,  in  a  mess-chest ; 
a  party  of  choice  spirits,  like  my  reader ;  and  a 
morning  such  as  breaks  nowhere  but  over  the 
hills  of  Paradise  and  New  Mexico — this  was  our 
start. 

Our  driver  was  a  young  Mexican,  bearing  a 
lengthy  and  musical  name,  with  which  I  shall  not 
serenade  you.  Juan  Fresco  (Cool  John)  is  a 


76  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

minute  fragment  of  it.  He  was  very  spruce  in  a 
brand-new  suit  of  kerseymere,  of  the  sort  sold 
throughout  the  frontier  by  Israelites  in  whom 
there  is  much  guile ;  a  handsome  Navajo  blanket 
closely  woven  and  brightly  striped ;  and  was 
happy  in  possession  of  a  limitless  supply  of  corn 
husks  and  powdered  tobacco,  which  he  rolled 
into  cigarettes  and  smoked,  without  so  much  as 
saying,  By  your  leave.  Had  he  known  it  was 
impolite,  he  would  have  implored  pardon,  with 
many  sweet-sounding  words.  Mexican  women 
smoke  constantly,  as  men  do,  and  he  does  not 
know  better.  He  can  live  and  does  live  on  a 
dollar  a  week ;  and,  with  tortillas,  onions,  red 
pepper,  and  once  in  a  great  while  a  mutton  stew, 
thrives  and  drives  the  ambulance.  They  say  that 
there  is  Indian  blood  in  him;  that  he  is  cold  as 
death  and  treacherous  as  a  tiger-cat ;  but  I  do  not 
believe  it. 

In  this  high,  dry  country,  corresponding  with 
Western  Asia,  the  tendency  of  the  human  body 
is  to  Arab  leanness,  and  Juan  Fresco,  who  grew 
to  man's  estate  under  this  fierce  Syrian  sun,  sit- 
ting against  the  mud  wall  of  a  Syrian  hut,  has  a 
soft  Syrian  face.  No  positive  beauty  (I  have 
never  seen  out-door  people  except  Arabs  who 
have),  but  comely  features,  unchanging,  melan- 
choly eyes,  and  a  gentle,  passive  voice,  very 
winsome. 

The  festal  day  found  Juan  Fresco  highly  em- 
bellished with  a  yellow  sash  tied  tightly  around 
his  waist,  securing  a  long  knife  (navaja)  in  its 
folds.  Every  Spaniard  can  use  the  knife  with 
skill,  and  in  his  hands  it  becomes  a  dreadful 
weapon.  He  can  cast  it  with  exact  aim  and  un- 
erring certainty  into  a  post  or  into  the  heart  of 
an  enemy  at  a  considerable  distance  away ;  and 
wherever  there  is  Spanish  blood  the  navaga  is 
the  favorite  weapon,  not  always  concealed  about 


To  the  Turquois  Mines.  77 

his  person.  Our  muleteer  took  his  pleasure  sadly 
as  any  Englishmen  ;  but  his  sadness  is  only  for 
strangers.  He  is  leader  of  the  band  which  goes 
from  house  to  house  playing  under  the  windows 
— the  sweet  Spanish  invitation  to  the  ball ;  gayly 
thrums  the  guitar  at  the  light  fandango ;  and  can 
dance  till  morning,  as  well  as  hold  his  own  in  any 
affray  that  may  grow  out  of  the  wild  license  of 
the  baile. 

Occasionally  he  leaped  from  his  seat  for  a  pock- 
etful of  stones,  gathering  them  as  the  wagon 
moved  on,  and  throwing  them  at  the  heads  of  the 
mules  ;  at  the  same  time  muttering,  on  the  ledger 
lines  below,  sacred  words  mixed  with  names  of 
saints.  The  Mexican  insists  a  mule  cannot  be 
made  to  understand  without  such  urging;  and  they 
have  a  proverb :  "  An  ass's  ears  are  made  long 
in  order  to  catch  oaths." 

[N.  B. — There  is  reason  to  believe  that  a  like 
superstition  attaches  to  the  Army  of  the  United 
States.] 

Leaving  the  venerable  city  of  the  Pueblos,  we 
crossed  the  Santa  Fe  River,  which  in  Indiana 
would  be  called  a  spring  branch.  I  have  often 
gone  over  it  dry  shod.  But  the  poverty  of  the 
Spanish  language  allows  only  one  word  for  run- 
ning water— ,/?/<?,  translated  river.  The  Santa  Fe 
Mountains  round  about  us  are  a  part  of  the  great 
Rocky  Mountain  system,  connecting  on  the  north 
with  the  Spanish  Peaks  and  Raton  Mountains, 
including  many  whose  summits  are  silvered  with 
perpetual  snow.  A  series  of  high,  picturesque 
chains,  in  the  morning-glow  robed  with  a  trans- 
parent purple  haze,  .of  such  exquisite  tint  one  can 
hardly  realize  those  airy  pyramids  in  a  fair  bor- 
der-land between  us  and  heaven  are,  indeed,  up- 
heavals of  earth,  veined  with  quartz  and  based  on 
coarse  red  granite. 

Words    cannot   picture   aught   so   fair.      The 


78  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

faintest  violet,  the  softest  heliotrope  are  coarse 
and  hard  beside  the  dreamy,  poetic  color,  which 
appeals  to  the  eye  as  dim  aeolian  soundings  touch 
the  ear,  charming  the  fancy  with  vague  ideas  of 
a  viewless  beauty  within  the  floating  veil. 

I  cannot  make  you  understand.  Come  and 
see  the  transfiguration  which  makes  rock-ribbed 
hills  appear  like  tents  of  light,  lovely  enough  for 
angels  to  rest  in  on  their  upward  flight. 

The  plain  was  smooth  as  a  prairie,  and  our 
road  free  of  stone.  The  reader  must  not  imagine 
it  lay  among  Alpine  scenery,  with  huge  peaks 
towering  to  the  sky,  forbidding  our  advance, 
yielding  at  last  to  reveal  smiling  valleys  and  hid- 
den hamlets,  nestling  close  to  the  hillsides  in 
narrow  glens.  Here  all  is  on  the  same  magnifi- 
cent scale..  The  plains  are  broad  as  the  sum- 
mits are  high  ;  the  refined  atmosphere  so  intensely 
clear  the  light  is  like  a  reflection  from  snow.  No 
such  extensive  views  are  in  Europe  or  any 
country  where  the  air  holds  moisture,  and  some- 
times the  landscapes  seem  absolutely  limitless. 

The  Sierras  are  short,  uneven  spurs  from  the 
main  line.  They  have  disturbed  the  overlying 
strata  in  the  shape  of  mesas  (tables)  of  solid  rock, 
which  are  a  distinguishing  feature  of  Rocky 
Mountain  scenery,  giving  it  a  grotesque,  fantas- 
tic beauty.  The  process  of  erosion  has  formed  in 
colossal  size  copies  of  the  grandest  structures  of 
man's  art,  and  towering  columns,  temples  with 
sharp  pinnacles,  scattered  pillars  rise  abruptly 
from  the  centre  of  plains  desolate  and  forsaken 
as  the  wilderness  of  Engedi — strange  and  solemn 
sights.  In  the  Painted  Desert  are  snow-white 
mesas,  the  craie  blanche  composition  of  the  chalk 
cliffs  on  the  south  coast  of  England,  which  dazzle 
the  eye,  reflecting  the  sunlight  like  palaces  of 
alabaster  or  of  ice.  The  stone  corridors  of  Kar- 
nak  and  Philae  are  the  work  of  pigmies  com- 


To  the  Turquois  Mines.  79 

pared   with  this  noble  architecture,  wrought  by 
slow  processes  in  secret  places, 

"Made  by  Nature  for  herself." 

Sometimes  the  mesa  shapes  into  a  rose-red  wall, 
with  fluted  columns  that  uphold  the  sky.  Again 
it  is  a  group  of  gray  pyramids,  a  thousand  or 
twelve  hundred  feet  high  ;  or  an  isolated,  broken 
dome,  worn  smooth  by  the  weather,  picturesque 
in  the  extreme. 

Nothing  affords  such  changes  of  coloring  as 
the  variegated  marls,  lying  in  regular  bands  of 
red,  orange,  green,  blue,  of  rainbow  hue,  striped 
and  interstratified  with  belts  of  purple,  bluish 
white,  and  mottled  veins  of  exceeding  richness. 

Strangely  enough,  the  traveler  occasionally 
finds  himself  riding  above  these  singular  forma- 
tions, and  looking  down  on  the  "  Painted  Rocks." 

The  sheer  sides  of  a  mesa  of  gray  limestone, 
mixed  with  blue  clay  and  capped  with  a  rim  of 
pillared  basalt,  are  singularly  like  fabrics  of  hewn 
stone.  I  have  seen  low  walls  of  even  height 
reaching  long  distances,  precisely  like  field-walls 
laid  by  skillful  masons.  These,  in  the  neighbor- 
hood of  stately  facades,  with  the  fair  finish  at  the 
top,  explain  how  an-  explorer,  afraid  to  make 
near  approach,  should  go  away  and  give  accounts 
of  vast  cities,  with  gallant  banners  on  the  walls 
enclosed  in  heavy  outworks. 


8o  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

CHAPTER  VII. 

TO  THE  TURQUOIS     MINES. 

TRAVELING  westward,  there  came  to  our  view 
the  first  Placer  Mountain  ;  behind  it  the  melon- 
shaped  Sandia,  13,000  feet  in  air;  and  far  south- 
ward the  detached  range  of  the  Manzana  Moun- 
tains. A  plateau,  the  highest  of  equal  area  on 
the  globe,  varied  with  sterile  vegas  and  dreary 
sierras,  which  reminded  the  early  adventurers  of 
their  own  Old  Castile,  and  so  like  it  one  can 
imagine  it  had  once  been  the  home  of  wandering 
tribes,  which  have  long  since  taken  up  their 
spears,  struck  their  tents,  and  sought  new  camps 
in  the  furthest  East. 

The  grama  grass  is  low  and  dry,  like  wiry 
moss,  and  in  the  distance  takes  a  wan,  ashen  hue, 
more  ghastly  than  white.  The  cactus  is  the  only 
shrub  in  sight.  A  gaunt,  starved  thing,  the  leper 
of  the  vegetable  world,  forbidding  our  approach. 

The  lively  prairie  dog  (who  is  no  dog,  but  a 
marmot)  saluted  as  we  passed.  Having  early 
learned  the  fifth  beatitude,  I  suppress  a  descrip- 
tion of  him.  Nor  shall  we  ask  how  he  exists 
without  water,  or  seek  to  know  if  there  is  a  snake 
at  the  bottom  of  his  den,  and  a  strange  bird 
dwelling  there  in  peace  and  safety. 

It  was  June;  but  not  the  leafy  month  of  June. 
The  only  timber — dwarf  cedar — which  can  grow 
in  this  barren  soil  was  cut  away  years  ago ;  and 
absence  of  trees  includes  absence  of  birds.  The 
friendly  trill  and  flutter  heard  about  nests  in 
shady  places  are  sadly  missed.  Now  and  then  a 
black  wing  flapped  overhead,  and  a  crow  flew 
down  in  the  road.  Living  equally  well  on  seed, 
roots,  flesh,  he  thrives  alike  in  all  places.  And, 


To  the   Turquois  Mines.  81 

except  this  one  sign  of  life,  we  may  journey  in 
some  directions  a  whole  day  and  see  neither  man 
nor  beast,  bird  nor  insect.  We  missed  the  wood- 
land scents,  too ;  the  forest  fragrance  of  mint, 
thyme,  pennyroyal,  and  the  beeches,  whose  shad- 
ows are  the  curtains  of  the  morning,  holding  its 
freshness  against  the  power  of  the  sun  till  high 
noon.  The  eye  soon  wearies  of  the  leaden  hues, 
and  longs  for  the  dark  leafage  which  is  the  glory 
of  the  Mississippi  Valley.  The  blank,  scorched 
plain,  lying  stark  and  still  in  the  fierce,  white 
light,  brought  a  sense  of  loneliness  and  depression 
impossible  to  shake  off.  There  was  no  rest  for 
the  sight  or  the  soul. 

But  what  is  this  apparition  starting  from  a  dis- 
tant clump  of  greasewood — a  grisly  animal, 
apparently  neither  brute  nor  human?  Rapidly 
coming  toward  us,  we  recognize  a  creature  of  the 
genus  homo.  "  In  the  desert  no  one  meets  a 
friend,"  says  the  Oriental  proverb  ;  and  there  was 
a  general  stir  for  arms  among  the  defenders,  and 
mute  shaking  of  the  head,  not  intended  to  be 
seen,  when  nothing  more  serviceable  than  a  cac- 
tus cane  was  found  in  the  ambulance. 

Every  reader  knows  the  border  is  the  chosen 
field  of  the  dime-novel  hero;  a  safe  refuge  for 
cut-throats  and  desperadoes  of  the  lowest  grades, 
who  live  by  robbery  and  plunder,  and  that  it  is 
wise  for  the  tourist  to  put  on  his  pistol  with  his 
watch,  or,  in  the  expressive  slang  of  the  frontier, 
he  may  be  blighted  by  lead  fever  before  sun- 
down. 

Outlaws  from  Mexico  and  Texas  haunt  the 
mountain  springs  and  prowl  about  the  canons 
of  the  territories ;  and,  in  dread  of  them,  hunters 
go  in  parties,  and  look  well  to  their  arms  when 
they  enter  narrow  defiles  or  a  dark,  lonesome 
gulch. 

These  vagabonds  subsist  on  the  fat  of  the  land, 


82  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

where  the  country  is  most  sparsely  settled,  and 
are  the  only  buyers  who  have  credit  and  are  not 
crowded  for  payment  by  the  Israelties  who  con- 
trol the  dry  goods  business  of  the  territory.  The 
ranchero  never  refuses  them  milk,  eggs,  or  mut- 
ton ;  and  the  dark-eyed  Mexican  girl  serves  them 
with  diligence,  under  promise  of  payment  when 
they  come  again.  Given  a  voice  in  the  matter, 
this  is  not  such  a  character  as  we  like  to  encount- 
er on  an  empty  plain,  even  in  broad  daylight ; 
and,  as  he  neared  us,  the  ladies  involuntarily  drew 
close  together  and  scanned  him  thoroughly. 

A  'powerful  fellow,  of  giant  frame  and  danger- 
ous muscle,  and,  though  unarmed,  a  foe  to  dread 
in  any  fight.  He  wore  a  shoddy  coat,  probably 
bought  on  compulsory  credit  of  the  Wandering 
Jew  of  Tularosa  ;  buckskin  pants,  with  fringed 
side-stripes  of  Indian  work,  tucked  inside  of  heavy 
cavalry  boots,  ponderous  brass  spurs  jingling  as 
he  walked  ;  a  red  cotton  handkerchief  knotted 
around  his  throat.  An  immense  slouched  som- 
brero— in  the  style  of  the  Mexican  caballero — 
drab,  with  a  rosette  and  cord  of  red  and  tinsel, 
covered  his  forehead  and  shaded  eyes  that  were 
restless  and  penetrating  like  a  blackbird's.  A 
shaggy,  unshorn  mane,  reddened  with  dust  and 
sunburn,  fell  over  the  buffalo  neck  and  shoulders ; 
matted  beard,  a  very  jungle,  reached  almost  to  the 
cartridge-belt,  and,  blown  aside  by  the  wind, 
revealed  the  outline  of  revolvers  in  his  breast- 
pockets. He  carried  a  Winchester  rifle  easily  as 
a  gentleman  carries  his  cane ;  a  leather  belt, 
buckled  around  his  waist,  was  filled  with  cart- 
ridges, and  bore  a  murderous-looking  knife  in  its 
sheath. 

When  this  shape,  of  aspect  threatening  and 
sinister,  came  within  friendly  hail,  we  bowed  with 
much  suavity. 

"  Texas  Jack  !  Buenos  dias!"  said  Juan  Fresco, 


To  the   Turquois  Mines,  83 

who  well  became  his  name ;  and  serene  as  sum- 
mer, he  shifted  the  reins  and  laid  his  hand  on  the 
navaja. 

The  frontiersman  touched  his  hat-brim  with  his 
big  forefinger,  sunburnt  to  a  vermillion  red, 
quietly  passed  on  toward  the  Galisteo,  and  we 
saw  him  no  more.  When  fairly  out  of  sight  of 
the  outlaw,  we  felt  brave  as  lions. 

"  A  prospector,"  said  one,  mildly. 

"  Yes,  and  never  without  a  prospect,"  said  the 
antiquarian,  bringing  out  an  old  witticism. 

"  A  black  sheep  without  any  white  spots," 
added  another.  "  They  always  bring  up  on  the 
frontier." 

And,  very  hilarious  under  the  sense  of  relief, 
we  courageously  debated  what  we  would  have 
done  had  the  robber  attempted  robbery  and 
ordered  us  to  hold  up  our  hands.  The  men  of 
the  pen  would  have  been  mere  boys  in  the  grip 
of  this  son  of  the  border  ;  and  we  cheered  our- 
selves with  telling  tales  of  how  "just  such  men  " 
had  gone  out  without  pistols  to  seek  their  for- 
tunes, and  had  never  been  heard  of  afterward. 

The  weakest  of  weeklies  is  dull  and  insipid 
compared  with  the  daily  experiences  recounted 
in  New  Mexico ;  and  restless  souls  who  hate 
trammels,  who  love  danger  for  its  own  sake,  and 
have  looked  death  in  the  face  till  they  cease  to 
fear  it,  find  a  special  charm  in  the  wild  "  game 
flavor"  of  the  frontier. 

The  borderer  who  crossed  our  path  was  the 
sort  of  soldier  who  in  March,  1862,  under  the 
rebel  General  Sibley,  came  up  from  Texas,  forded 
the  Rio  Grande  at  a  point  below  Fort  Craig, 
fought  the  Union  troops  under  Gen.  Canby  at 
Valverde,  and  again  at  Canon  Glorietta,  fifteen 
miles  from  Santa  Fe.  In  that  narrow  pass,  where 
flanking  was  out  of  the  question,  a  severe  fight 
between  infantry  and  artillery  occured,  in  which 


84  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

the  rebels  were  victorious,  and  Sibley  entered 
the  capital  city  without  meeting  further  resis- 
tance. 

His  Texan  Rangers,  like  Texas  Jack,  were 
half  savage  ;  a  desperate  set,  having  no  higher  mo- 
tive than  plunder  and  adventure.  Each  one  was 
mounted  on  a  mustang  horse,  and  carried  a  rifle, 
a  tomahawk,  a  bowie-knife,  a  pair  of  Colt's  revol- 
vers, and  a  lasso  for  catching  and  throwing  the 
horses  of  a  flying  enemy.  Not  valuing  their 
own  lives  at  a  pin's  fee,  they  gave  no  quarter  and 
expected  none. 

About  eleven  o'clock  the  breeze  dropped  and 
the  sun  came  up  with  a  dry,  sultry  scorch,  like 
flame.  Our  spirits  flagged,  the  stories  ended, 
laughter  and  song  died  away ;  nor  could  we  rouse 
to  the  least  interest  in  a  herdsman's  ranche — a 
mud-built  hive,  swarming  with  Mexican  drones. 

"  What  a  weary  land  !  "  said  Thalia. 

"All  lands  are  weary  for  women,"  said  her 
elder  sister ;  and  for  a  time  nothing  was  heard 
but  the  harsh  grinding  of  wheels  in  the  gravelly 
sand. 

In  such  emptiness  it  was  a  stirring  event  to  be 
overtaken  by  a  Pueblo  Indian,  who  passed  us 
with  a  swinging  stride,  rarely  seen  off  the  boards 
of  a  country  theatre.  This 

"  Wild  warrior  of  the  Turquois   Hills  " 

is  tame  enough  now.  Always  a  tiller  of  the  soil, 
he  is  the  original,  in  fact,  the  aboriginal  granger. 
A  picturesque  figure,  in  a  handsome  striped 
blanket,  with  red  girth  around  his  waist  and  a 
crown  of  green  leaves,  like  the  classic  fillet,  shad- 
ing his  forehead.  We  were  fortunate,  too,  in  seeing 
a  half-grown  boy  chase  jack-rabbits  with  a  curved 
stick,  hurling  it  with  whirring  sound,  in  the  style 
of  the  boomerang,  till  lately  thought  exclusively 
Australian.  The  stripling  appeared  like  the 


To  the  Turquois  Mines.  85 

bird-hunter  of  the  Nile,  carved  in  basso  relievo  on 
the  oldest  tomb  at  Thebes.  Weapon  and  attitude 
of  the  Egyptian  are  precisely  the  same  as  those 
of  the  boyish  red  hunter  of  North  America. 

The  more  we  learn  of  Eve's  family,  the  surer 
the  proofs  of  a  common  parentage.  Guided  by 
the  same  instinct,  the  tools  of  various  nations, 
unknown  to  each  other,  are  the  same  and  the 
measure  of  their  advancement ;  showing  how 
little  depends  on  accident,  and  how  closely  they 
are  connected  with  the  organism,  and,  therefore, 
with  the  necessities  of  man.  So  striking  is  the 
parallel  between  aborigines  in  every  continent 
tha't  with  difficulty  do  we  divest  ourselves 
of  the.  idea  that  there  must  have  been  some  direct 
intercommunication. 

A  band  of  tender  green,  restful  to  the  sight, 
follows  the  course  of  a  poor,  tired,  sluggish 
stream,  sixteen  miles  from  Santa  Fe ;  and  a  mile 
or  two  down  its  soundless  current  we  described  a 
group  of  cotton-wood  trees — an  oasis,  indeed — 
shading  alow  adobe  house.  The  green  leaves  in 
restless  flutter  and  the  brook  gave  the  spot  an 
appearance  of  home  not  often  found  in  the  square 
of  brown  mud  wall  which  makes  the.  Mexican 
domicile. 

Along  the  margin  of  the  nameless  stream  is  a 
border  of  alkali,  sprinkled  in  patches  like  salt 
over  the  ground.  Of  course,  we  were  struck  with 
thirst  at  sight  of  running  water  ;  but  prudently  con- 
tented ourselves  with  that  in  our  canteens,  rather 
than  risk  drinking  alkali,  which  abounds  in  New 
Mexico,  so  strong  in  some  streams  that  fish  can- 
not live  in  them.  In  many  places  the  ranchero 
digs,  to  find  only  a  mocking  fluid,  deadly  alike 
to  man,  beast,  and  vegetation.  And  we  compre- 
hend the  Arabian  saying  :  "  The  water  provider 
is  always  blest,  being  daily  remembered  in  the 
prayers  of  the  faithful." 


86  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

Our  road  was  an  easy  descent  all  the  way,  the 
Cerillos  being  nearly  3,000  feet  lower  than  Santa 
Fe.  The  founder  of  the  antique  city  (Don  An- 
tonio de  Espego)  described  this  country  with 
Spanish  exuberance,  in  a  letter  to  Philip  Second : 
"  The  earth  is  filled  with  gold,  silver,  and  tur- 
quoises." And  the  gallant  adventurer  threw 
such  glowing  light  upon  it,  the  king  at  once  sent 
a  thousand  men  to  colonize  and  possess  the  pro- 
vince. 

As  we  quietly  journeyed  along,  I  pondered  on 
the  very  moderate  basis  the  heroic  Cavaliers, 
those  old  Spanish  filibusters,  had  for  the  briljiant 
reports  sent  back  to  Spain.  Leaving  the  ambu- 
lance within  a  mile  of  the  mines,  we  toiled  wearily 
along  the  mountains,  well  named  the  Rocky. 
Their  surface  is  strewn  with  fragments,  broken  as 
if  chipped  with  hammers — a  ragged  pavement, 
which  bruised  our  feet,  tore  our  shoes,  and  wore 
out  our  patience ;  and  when  at  last  we  reached 
the  first  mine,  we  thought  it  but  a  continuation 
of  Los  Cerillos.  The  most  ancient  is  much  the 
largest,  and  to  this  we  directed  our  steps.  Undef 
the  dizzy  crags  which  overhang  it  is  a  sheltered 
recess,  blackened  with  smoke  and  bedded  with 
ashes  made  by  camp-fires  of  Indians,  who  still 
frequent  the  spot,  in  search  of  the  precious  chal- 
chuite.  With  difficulty  we  reached  this  cave,  and, 
leaning  over  the  edge,  looked  down  and  saw,  not 
a  narrow,  black  shaft,  but  half  a  mountain  cut 
away.  Undoubtedly,  the  mineral  lay  here  which, 
through  countless  generations,  furnished  the 
Indian  kings  with  their  most  valued  ornaments. 
The  yawning  pit  is  two  hundred  feet  deep  and 
more  than  three  hundred  in  diameter.  Probably 
the  work  of  aborigines  before  De  Soto's  requiem 
mingled  with  the  voice  of  the  rushing  waters  of 
his  burial  place ;  when  Columbus  had  seen  the 
New  World  only  in  that  vision  of  the  night, 


To  the   Turqtiois  Mines.  87 

where  the  unknown  voice  whispered :  "  God  will 
cause  thy  name  to  be  wonderfully  resounded 
through  the  earth,  and  will  give  thee  the  keys  of 
the  gates  of  the  Ocean,  which  are  closed  with 
strong  chains."  On  the  walls  of  the  great  exca- 
vation Nature  has  gently,  patiently  done  what 
she  could  to  smooth  the  rugged  crags,  and  has 
thrown  out  of  their  fissures  a  scant  growth  of 
shrubs,  and  trailed  a  scarlet  blossom  here  and 
there  on  a  thread-like  stem.  At  the  bottom,  on 
stones  crumbling  with  age,  stained  and  weather- 
worn, are  dwarf  pines,  the  growth  of  the  centur- 
ies. m  In  this  close  amphitheatre  there  is  no  breeze 
to  stir  their  tops,  and  their  motionless  foliage, 
with  its  somber  shadows,  adds  to  the  ever-pres- 
ent mountain-gloom. 

Thousands  of  tons  of  rock  have  been  crushed 
from  the  solid  mass,  and  thrown  up  in  such  a  high 
heap  it  seems  another  mountain,  overgrown  with 
old  pines  and  dry  gray  mosses.  On  a  few  frag- 
ments we  noticed  the  turquois  stain — "indica- 
tion "  of  valuable  mineral.  When  we  consider 
that  all  this  digging,  hewing,  and  hacking  were 
done  by  hand-labor  alone,  without  knowledge  of 
domestic  animals,  iron,  or  gunpowder,  the  debris 
carried  away  in  sacks  of  skins,  the  enormity  of 
the  work  is  the  more  impressive.  The  tradition 
is  that  the  chalchuite  mines,  through  immemorial 
ages  known  to  the  primitive  race,  were  possessed 
by  the  Spaniards  in  the  sixteenth  century.  In- 
dian slaves  then  worked  them,  under  the  lash  of 
the  conqueror,  until  1680,  when,  by  accident,  a 
portion  of  the  rock  from  which  we  had  our  first 
view  fell,  and  killed  thirty  Pueblos.  The  Span- 
iards immediately  made  a  requisition  on  the  town 
of  San  Marcos  for  more  natives  to  take  their 
places  ;  when,  with  a  general  uprising,  they  drove 
the  hated  oppressor  from  the  country  as  far 
south  an  El  Paso  del  Norte.  I  give  the  tale  for 


88  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

what  it  is  worth.  Mining  atmospheres  are  the 
favorite  haunts  of  fable,  and  a  spice  of  truth  is 
enough  to  flavor  whole  volumes  of  stories,  charm- 
ing but  delusive.  An  airy  legend  hovers  about 
Santa  Fe  that  two  stones  from  "  La  Canada  de 
las  Minas" — "  Glen  of  Mines" — are  still  among 
the  crown  jewels  of  Arragon.  But  chalchuites 
were  valueless  after  being  once  submitted  to  the 
jewelers  of  Spain  ;  and  the  sparkling  story,  like 
many  another  told  by  the  camp-fire,  loses  its 
original  brightness  when  removed  to  the  search- 
ing light  of  the  student's  lamp. 

Careful  analysis  shows  the  constituents  of  the 
chalchuites  are  nearly  the  same  as  those  of  the 
Persian  turquoises,  and  their  formation  the  result 
of  infiltration.  Sometimes  they  are  washed  up 
by  heavy  rains ;  but  usually  are  discovered  by- 
digging  in  the  sandstone  or  are  broken  out  from 
the  body  of  the  rock. 

Not  being  disposed  to  dig,  we  retraced  our 
path,  and  climbed  around  to  the  top  of  the  shelv- 
ing crag  above  us,  and  looked  over  the  plateau. 
Eastwardly  it  stretches  toward  Santa  Fe,  beyond 
which  the  stony  mountains  lift  their  high  heads. 
On  the  southwest  it  opens  toward  the  Rio  Grande 
in  a  measureless  vista,  where  earth  and  sky  appear 
to  meet.  A  plain,  oppressive  in  its  vastness, 
lying  in  the  midst  of  a  stone  wilderness,  its 
sameness  relieved  by  the  solitary  peaks,  Sandia 
and  Albuquerque.  In  every  direction  stand 
mountains  grim  and  fixed  as  walls  of  adamant, 
apparently  immovable  as  the  throne  of  God. 
Low  in  the  horizon  one  feather}'-  cloud  hung 
moveless  in  a  sapphire  sky.  The  world  seemed 
stricken  dead.  No  verdure  to  cool  the  parched 
grass  ;  no  water,  "  the  eye  of  the  earth  "  glanc- 
ing up  toward  heaven ;  no  waving  branches, 
beckoning  like  friendly  hands  to  cool  shade  and 
slicker  :  no  wagon-road  or  foot-path  to  mark  the 


To  the  Turquois  Mines.  89 

track  of  men ;  not  a  sound  to  break  a  stillness 
Which  is  not  the  hush  of  profound  peace,  but  the 
everlasting  silence  of  death. 

Save  the  one  shining  spot  of  gauzy  vapor,  the 
blue  above  was  without  a  blur.  The  sun  was  at 
meridian,  and  in  its  hard  glitter  the  scorched 
summits  looked  like  they  were  at  white  heat. 
The  sea  is  lonely ;  but  it  has  shifting  color, 
sound,  and  motion.  The  silence  of  the  land  is 
deeper.  If  there  had  been  the  note  of  a  bird, 
the  hum  of  bees,  even  a  grasshopper's  chirp,  it 
had  been  a  relief;  but  in  the  far-reaching  desola- 
tion I  alone  drew  breath.  All  else  was  still  as 
the  breast  when  the  spirit  has  fled. 

The  influence  was  benumbing  to  the  senses, 
and  as  I  stood  in  infinite  solitude,  a  stone  among 
stones,  there  came  over  me  the  feeling  that  this 
melancholy  waste  is  the  skeleton  of  our  Mother 
Earth ;  that  the  dust  of  which  all  flesh  is  made 
has  been  blown  away,  scattered  to  the  four  winds 
of  heaven,  leaving  these  gray  old  bones  forlorn 
and  unburied  through  the  long,  slow  centuries, 
till  the  coming  of  the  Great  Day  for  which  all 
other  days  were  made. 

The  voices  below  were  too  remote  for  my 
hearing,  and  (how  absurd  it  now  appears)  it  was 
"  company  "  to  spy  a  speckled  chameleon,  sun- 
ning himself  on  a  rock  ;  and,  as  he  quickly  slipped 
between  its  cracks  and  vanished,  I  was  left  the 
more  alone.  Listening  to  silence,  as  it  were, 
there  swept  across  my  memory  the  words  of  the 
hymn  familiar  in  childhood  as  the  dear  face  which 
bent  above  my  cradle  : 

"O'er  all  these  wide-extended  plains 
Shines  one  eternal  day." 

If  the  singer  had  ever  faced  the  blinding  glare 
of  high  noon  on  the  wide-extended  plains  of  the 
Rocky  Mountains,  he  would  have  tuned  his  harp 
anew,  and  hymned  the  rivers  of  waters  in  a  dry 


90  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

place,  the  shadow  of  a  great  rock  in  a  weary 
land. 

1  soon  sought  that  refuge  from  the  desert 
scorch,  and,  snatching  at  shrubs  to  keep  from  slip- 
ping, scrambled  down  the  mountain  by  a  dizzy, 
winding  way,  the  loosened  stones  rolling  after  me 
to  the  bottom  of  the  mine.  How  pleasant  the 
smoke  of  the  camp-fire  !  Its  leaping  flame  and 
crackle  were  a  welcome  back  to  life  again.  And 
never  till  then  did  I  know  how  much  sweeter  than 
harp  or  horn  the  sound  of  human  voices  can  be. 

Long  before  I  joined  my  companions  I  had 
heard  shouts  of  exultation,  and,  wondering  what 
prospector  had  "  struck  it,"  I  learned  that  a  piece 
of  chalchuite  had  been  brought  out  of  the  lining 
of  a  seam  where  it  had  lain  under  the  roots  of  a 
stunted  shrub,  in  appearance  not  unlike  spice- 
wood.  It  was  near  an  inch  in  length,  by  half  an 
inch  in  thickness  ;  a  large  and  lovely  specimen, 
the  color  sea-green,  delicately  shaded  into  blue — 
the  latter  the  result  of  decomposition,  so  the 
scientist  said. 

The  owner  of  this  "  regular  bonanza  "  was  our 
driver.  He  made  no  effort  to  conceal  his  delight ; 
and  with  reason,  for  it  was  a  rare  piece  of  min- 
eral, and  he  a  lucky  miner  to  obtain  it  with  so 
little  trouble,  or  even  to  get  it  at  all.  Such  a 
stone  the  gentle  and  gracious  Montezuma  might 
have  worn  in  his  signet-ring  or  set  in  the  clasp 
of  his  green  mantle  of  feather-work.  Such  a  gift 
would  have  made  still  brighter  the  bright  eyes  of 
his  daughter,  the  laughing  Princess  Nenetzin,  the 
spoiled  darling,  whose  death  was  the  crowning 
horror  of  the  Noche  Triste. 

I  had  sniffed  coffee  from  afar,  and  now  we 
were  ready  to  pass  the  cup  that  not  inebriates, 
sung  by  the  temperate  Cowper.  Our  cloth  was 
laid  on  a  table-rock,  the  feast  was  spread,  we  ate, 
drank,  and  were  merry.  The  dumb  spell  of  the 


To  the   Turquois  Mines.  91 

desert  snapt,  only  the  peace  of  the  perpetual  hills 
remained.  Resting  in  the  fragrant  shade  of  the 
pines,  we  talked  of  Montezuma,  the  saddest, 
proudest  chief  of  Indian  history,  whose  name  is 
still  a  majestic  memory  among  the  degraded, 
broken-hearted  Pueblos. 

Beautiful  beliefs  they  cherish  regarding  him — 
the  peculiar  friend  of  the  red  race,  shadowy  above 
all  things,  yet  real  above  all  things,  who  dwelt 
among  them  as  a  god,  yet  a  familiar  friend.  He 
was  the  brother  and  equal  of  the  Unseen  One 
whose  name  it  is  death  to  utter ;  and  the  chiefs 
still  watch  for  him  at  sunrise  beside  the  sacred 
fire  in  the  estufa,  claiming  his  promise  to  come 
again  from  his  throne  in  the  sun,  and  bring  back 
the  faded  glories  of  his  fallen  people.  All  their 
traditions  point  to  the  second  advent  of  their 
beloved  prophet,  priest,  and  king,  who  disap- 
peared from  the  earth  when  it  was  young,  and 
who  will  not  fail,  in  the  fullness  of  time,  to  redeem 
the  promise  made  to  his  red  children. 

The  ground  was  strewn  with  fragments  of 
broken  pottery,  the  unfailing  sign  of  the  ancient 
Pueblo,  the  rightful  owner  of  this  soil.  They 
were  colored  maroon  red,  light  clay,  and  dark 
brown,  with  markings  of  black.  At  sight  of  them 
the  antiquarian  fell  to  wandering  among  tombs, 
discoursing  on  fallen  kingdoms,  extinct  races, 
wrecks  of  empire,  and  columns  voiceless  as  the 
gray  stones  of  Paestum.  He  was  learned  and 
eloquent;  but  none  of  these  things  move  me. 
Our  little  scraps  were  but  the  elder  and  better 
counterparts  of  the  poor  potteries  the  Pueblos 
make  at  this  day ;  and  merely  prove,  what  I 
believe  has  never  been  disputed,  that  North 
America  has  been  inhabited  from  a  remote  period.. 
I  know  there  are  enthusiasts  who  insist  there  was 
a  prehistoric  race,  displaced  by  what  we  call 
aborigines,  which  had  a  civilization  comparing 


92  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

favorably  with  those  of  the  Old  World.  What 
that  civilization  was,  let  the  stone  hatchet,  and  the 
dingy  pottery  with  its  graceless  tracings  testify, 
when  laid  beside  relics  from  Eturia  the  Beautiful. 
The  Western  fragments  are  in  beggarly  contrast 
with  the  exquisite  vases  and  jewel-work  which 
are  the  model  and  despair  of  the  modern  artist. 

Several  inferior  bits  of  chalchuite  were  dug  out 
of  the  ancient  wastage  ;  but  the  color  was  faint, 
as  if  they  had  not  lain  long  enough  for  a  thorough 
dyeing.  We  added  to  our  collection  an  arrow- 
head of  jasper  and  one  of  obsidian,  nicely  flaked 
and  pointed ;  and  gave  a  dollar  for  the  largest 
Indian  hatchet  I  have  ever  seen,  brought  up  by 
the  enterprising  Juan  Fresco  from  an  abandoned 
silver  mine  hard  by.  It  was  roughened  and 
time-worn,  and  had  lain  there  how  long — ah ! 
Quien  sabe? 

It  may  interest  some  believer  in  the  perishing 
theory  of  "  Ages"  to  know  the  Stone  Age  is  not 
ended  in  New  Mexico.  Within  the  present  gen- 
eration, it  is  said,  remote  tribes  have  used  as  a 
weapon,  offensive  and  defensive,  the  stone 
hatchet,  tied  by  a  thong  of  deerskin  to  a  wooden 
handle.  As  Sir  John  Herschel  said  of  something 
else,  this  is  one  of  those  things  which,  according 
to  received  theories,  ought  not  to  happen. 

We  lingered  under  the  solemn  pines,  groping 
with  shadows,  visible  and  unseen,  loth  to  leave. 
The  hoary  hills,  so  lone  and  untrodden,  began  to 
be  possessed  of  strange  enchantment.  The  place 
was  ours  by  right  of  discovery.  We  were  a  band 
of  explorers,  the  first  to  break  a  silence  lasting 
since  the  morning  stars  sang  at  creation's  dawn. 
Perhaps  the  witchery  was  a  variation  of  the  preva- 
lent miner's  fever,  for  the  day  was  waning  when 
we  reluctantly  gave  over  our  search  for  precious 
mineral. 

In  the  shining  of  the  loveliest  afterglow  this  side 


To  the  Turquois  Mines,  Continued.  93 

of  Heaven,  we  sought  the  wagon,  standing  in  the 
level  expanse,  like  a  ship  at  anchor.  A  freshen- 
ing breeze  blew  cheerily,  and,  turning  back  as  we 
drove  away,  we  watched  the  swift-coming  Night 
gather  the  mountains  tenderly,  one  by  one,  into 
her  bosom,  and  touch  their  scarred,  stern  faces 
with  ineffable  beauty. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

TO  THE  TURQUOIS   MINES, 
(Continued.) 

NORTH  of  the  Placer  Ridges  and  divided  from 
them  by  the  intervening  valley  of  the  Galisteo, 
are  bold  bluffs  of  trap,  the  cut  edges  of  a  plateau 
forming  a  mesa,  from  which  rise  the  volcanic 
cones  of  Los  Cerillos.  From  these  hills  rushed 
the  fiery  lava-flow  widespread  over  the  country, 
giving  it  a  worn-out  look,  desert-like  and  depres- 
sing to  the  last  degree.  Geologists  assert  that,  at 
a  very  recent  period  in  the  world's  changes,  fire, 
ice,  and  water  have,  with  tremendous  subter- 
ranean forces,  left  here  marks  of  a  storm  more 
terrible  than  our  conceptions  of  the  Deluge.  The 
hot  springs,  now  slowly  dying  out,  are  the  last 
of  the  series  of  events  once  performed  on 
a  scale  which  almost  baffles  human  concep- 
tion. The  faint  departing  remnants  of  once 
terrific  forces  point  to  something  which  must  be 
described  by  a  broader  word  than  earthquake — a 
fiery  convulsion,  that  altered  the  whole  face  of 
the  country,  if  we  may  judge  by  the  marks  the 
storm  has  left. 

In  order  to  avoid  a  rocky  unheaval,  thrown  out 
by  the  expiring  energies  of  the  volcanic  epoch, 
not  yet  closed,  we  started  back  to  Santa  Fe  by  a 
circuitous  route,  and  soon  came  on  signs  of  a 


94  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

camp — heaps  of  white  ashes,  circled  by  burnt 
and  blackened  ends  of  pinon  chips.  The  veya 
is  sere  and  parched  as  the  plains  of  Arabia,  and 
in  dreamy  mood  we  could  easily  fancy  the  last 
tent  of  the  Moslem  had  just  been  struck,  the 
heavy  standard  folded  by  slim  figures  in  sweep- 
ing burnous;  and  we  glanced  along  the  horizon 
for  a  gleam  of  slender  spears,  and  the  long  cara- 
van, made  spectral  by  distance,  slowly  vanishing 
into  the  mystic  silence  of  the  desert. 

Involuntarily  we  looked  for  valuables  dropped 
by  Haroun  and  Mohammed,  as  they  untethered 
the  camels  and  packed  the  hampers ;  scattered 
spices  ;  a  jeweled  cup  of  gold,  with  the  lump  of 
ambergris  at  the  bottom ;  a  white  turban ;  a 
shawl  of  price. 

No  such  thing. 

There  lay  on  the  ground,  instead,  a  battered 
sardine-box,  a  sliver  of  wagon-tongue,  the  broken 
end  of  a  saw  (pocketed  by  Juan  Fresco),  four 
greasy  cards  (also  appropriated  by  Cool  John), 
two  used-up  paper  collars,  and  an  empty  black 
bottle.  Strong  testimonials  to  the  high  superior- 
ity of  our  arts,  and  the  refinements  of  our  boasted 
civilization. 

A  little  way  from  the  road,  fastened  to  a 
scrubby  pinon  tree,  was  a  fluttering  white  signal ; 
and,  thinking  it  might  be  a  sign  of  distress,  we 
stopped  the  willing  mules,  and  all  got  out  to  see 
what  was  the  matter.  With  the  help  of  a  match, 
we  made  out  a  rudely  penciled  hand  on  canvas 
of  flour-bag,  pointing  in  the  direction  of  Los 
Cerillos,  and  below  it  read  the  bold  legend, — 

"  SWEET  HOME  SALOON." 

Looking  ahead,  we  hailed  Sweet  Home  itself. 
A  roofless  pen  of  pine  boughs,  fencing  in  narrow 
shelves  of  black  bottles,  and  a  camp-stool — a 
dark  puzzle  made  of  mule-bones  and  cowhide, 


To  the  Turquois  Mines,   Continued* 

pronounced  a  relic  of  the  palaeozoic  age  by  the 
geologist.  The  establishment  was  guarded  by  a 
wolfish  dog,  which  the  bravest  of  us  did  not  care 
to  examine ;  so  we  hurried  back  to  the  ambu- 
lance, regardless  of  prickly  pear,  and  in  the 
valley's  edge  passed  the  white  tents  of  the  van- 
guard of  civilization — an  army  of  laborers,  work- 
ing day  and  night  on  the  railroad  track.  They 
will  not  march  till  they  have  broken  the  fascinat- 
ing spell,  the  poetic  glamor  which  the  romantic 
Espego  threw  over  Nueva  Espagna  three  hundred 
years  ago,  and  which  has  rested  on  it  like  an 
alluring  mystery  ever  since.  If  you  would  dream 
dreams  and  see  visions,  now  is  the  time  to  come. 
If  you  would  taste  the  wild  charm,  hasten  to 
catch  it  before  the  wear  of  every-day  travel 
tramples  out  the  primitive  customs.  It  is  still  to 
a  good  degree  a  country  apart  from  the  rest  of 
the  United  States ;  mountain-locked  and  little 
known,  severed,  as  it  has  been,  from  the  great 
highways  of  commerce.  Its  history  is  a  romance 
and  a  tragedy,  and,  as  in  every  country  imper- 
fectly explored,  it  holds  more  or  less  of  the 
mysterious.  Here  are  extensive  ruins;  unpar- 
alleled natural  phenomena;  mountains,  "  flaunting 
their  crowns  of  snow  everlastingly  in  the  face  of 
the  sun,"  that  bear  in  their  bosom  undeveloped 
mines,  dazzling  the  imagination ;  canons  with 
perpendicular  sides  a  mile  in  height ;  savages 
merciless  and  bloodthirsty,  who  in  undying  hate 
still  dispute  the  progress  of  foreign  civilization. 
But  the  civilizer  is  coming  ;  is  here.  The  waste 
lands  of  the  wandering  tribes  will  be  divided  and 
sold  by  the  acre,  instead  of  the  league.  The 
dozing  Mexican  will  be  jostled  on  the  elbow,  and 
will  wake  from  his  long  trance  to  find  himself  in 
the  way. 

A  procession  of  phantoms  is  flying  along  "El 
Camino  del  ferro  carril" ;  whispering  voices  are 


96  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

drowned  in  the  hiss  of  steam ;  and  the  midnight 
hush  of  the  black  canon  is  stirred  by  the  whirr 
of  beautiful  wings,  unheard  save  by  ears  attuned 
to  finest  harmonies.  By  the  time  this  letter 
reaches  the  eyes  so  dear  to  the  writer,  there  will 
be  no  haunted  solitudes  along  Los  Cerillos.  The 
pick  and  shovels  of  Mike  Brady  and  the  O'Flan- 
negans  will  have  put  to  flight  the  finer  fancies  of 
musing  antiquary  and  dreaming  pilgrim.  You 
know  certain  boundaries  mark  the  limit  of  every 
created  thing,  be  it  real  or  imaginary. 

Fairies  never  trip  it  on  pavements.  They  are 
too  delicate  for  such  footing.  Ghosts  haunt  only 
houses  where  men  have  lived  and  died  ;  and  the 
epic  of  history  cannot  abide  the  screech  of  the 
locomotive  nor  its  penetrating  headlight.  It 
requires  broken,  disconnected  threads,  doubtful 
testimony,  dim  lights — above  all,  the  misty  lines 
of  distance  The  locomotive  brings  the  ends  of 
the  earth  together,  and  dashes  into  nothingness 
delicate  tissues  woven  in  darkness,  like  certain 
delicate  laces,  whose  threads  break  in  the  weaving 
by  day. 

And  here  is  something  brought  by  the  loco- 
motive. 

In  the  luminous  haze  of  the  paling  twilight 
appeared  a  peddler,  lying  beside  his  pack,  shel- 
tered by  a  rock,  under  which  he  had  crept,  which 
looked  as  though  it  might  fall  any  moment  and 
crush  him  to  atoms.  On  nearer  view,  we  discov- 
ered, instead  of  peddler  and  pack,  the  pioneer 
organ  grinder,  the  first  to  set  foot  in  New  Mexico. 
His  shoes  were  ragged  and  travel-worn.  He  wore 
a  cast-off  uniform  of  army  blue,  and  a  red  hand- 
kerchief knotted  round  his  throat.  Sun-scorched 
gray  hair  straggled  round  the  edge  of  his  black 
skull-cap,  and  mingled  with  the  dust  of  the 
ground.  Overcome  by  heat  and  fatigue,  he  was 
dead  asleep,  one  hand  resting  on  the  rusty  green 


To  the  Turquois  Mines,   Continued.  97 

curtain  which  draped  the  organ,  the  other  hold- 
ing the  neck  of  a  little  brown  dog,  about  the  size 
of  a  pinch  of  snuff,  curled  up  in  his  bosom.  In 
the  emptiness  of  the  desert  every  peaceful  thing 
is  welcome.  We  stopped,  as  a  matter  of  course. 

"  A  bad  place  for  a  tramp,  unless  he  can  eat 
rock  and  drink  mirage,"  said  our  polyglott  anti- 
quary, as  he  jumped  from  the  ambulance.  He 
shook  the  sleeper  gently,  and  addressed  him  in 
Italian.  The  man  slowly  rose  to  his  feet.  "  Ah  ! 
excellenza,"  said  he,  in  the  spoken  music  of 
Southern  Italy,  "  your  voice  is  like  the  sound  of 
fountains  in  the  ear  of  the  thirsty.  Tell  me,  is 
there  no  water  in  this  land  ?  " 

"None  within  six  miles;  but  we  have  a  can- 
teen left,  which  you  may  have,"  and  the  kindly 
antiquary  produced  the  dirty  frontier  flask,  sewed 
up  in  flannel,  to  keep  its  contents  cool — which  it 
never  does. 

The  musician  unscrewed  the  lid,  and  took  a 
long  draught. 

"  It  is  better  than  wine,"  he  said,  "  for  Victor 
can  drink  it  too,"  and  he  poured  the  precious 
liquid  matin  cup.  The  little  brute,  who  was  pretty 
much  all  tail,  gave  a  friendly  bark,  and  wagged 
himself  almost  to  pieces  as  he  slaked  his  thirst. 

"  Where  are  you  going  ?  "  we  asked. 

"  To  Albuquerque,  to  Bernalillo,  to  Las  Lunas  " 
— and  he  named  the  various  towns  and  stations 
on  the  route  to  Old  Mexico. 

"  The  country  is  overrun  by  Apaches — 
Indians  who  will  torture  you  and  then  kill  you." 

"The  banditti  will  not  hurt,"  said  the  old  man, 
simply,  "  when  I  give  them  this." 

He  lifted  the  box  to  its  one  leg,  raised  the  cur- 
tain, turned  the  crank  ;  a  warning  click,  and  lo  ! 
"  Hear  me,  Norma."  How  strangely  the  familiar 
air  sounded  across  that  plain,  so  wide,  so  dim,  so 
still !  Through  a  floating  mist,  not  of  the  earth 
7 


98  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

or  of  the  sky,  I  saw,  not  the  wanderer  and  his 
wretched  instrument,  but  a  radiant  vision  of  glit- 
tering lights,  the  brilliant  crowd  in  the  horseshoe 
curve,  hanging  breathless  on  the  voice  of  the 
divine  singer,  now  leading  the  starry  choir  of 
Heaven. 

Surely,  there  is  not  another  place  in  the  world 
where  a  party  of  sensible  people  would  fool  away 
an  hour  on  an  organ-grinder.  Every  well-regu- 
lated mind  (and  I  address  no  other)  will  perceive 
the  absurdity.  But  it  was  so  long  since  we  had 
heard  one,  he  was  such  a  delightful  reminder  of 
bright  days  and  brighter  nights,  that  over  and 
over  again  we  made  the  drowsy  player  drone  his 
dull  tunes.  They  brought  us  serene  and  golden 
Italy,  the  racing  shadows  and  glancing  sumbeams 
of  the  far  Campania ;  and,  best  of  all,  the  love- 
songs  of  home — that  sweet  spot,  toward  which  I 
look  as  the  first  woman,  exiled  forever,  must 
have  looked  toward  the  barred  gates  of  lost 
Paradise. 

When  the  wheezy  machine  rested,  we  gave  the 
player  a  small  (very  small)  fortune  in  loose 
change  and  the  remnants  of  our  lunch.  He  had 
only  a  cracker  and  two  onions  in  his  wallet,  and 
the  wayfarer  would  have  knelt  for  gratitude,  had 
we  allowed  it,  while  he  rained  blessings  on  our 
heads,  in  the  name  of  the  Queen  of  Heaven,  the 
saints,  and  all  the  angels. 

"Where  do  you  camp?  "  asked  the  antiquary, 
when  the  benediction  slacked. 

"Wherever  the  night  finds  me".  I  have  a 
blanket,  Victor  is  company,  and  the  sky  is  my 
tent." 

There  was  infinite  pathos  in  the  words  and  his 
glance  up  to  the  arch  overhead.  The  flash  of 
hero's  armor  in  the  changeful  curtains  of  the 
glorious  tent  warned  us  to  go  on  ;  but  we  were 
slow  to  leave  the  stranger,  and  would  have  taken 


To  the  Turquois  Mines,  Continued.  99 

him  with  us,  but  the  ambulance  was  already 
over-loaded. 

He  stood  bareheaded  long  as  we  were  in  sight, 
lazily  grinding  "  The  Last  Rose  of  Summer,"  as 
though  he  was  falling  asleep.  Faint  and  clear 
the  music  drifted  after  us,  by  distance  mellowed 
into  sweetness.  Miles  away,  now  lost  in  the 
valley,  now  low  on  the  hills,  floated 

u  Tufts  of  tune  like  thistle-down," 

wafted  along  by  the  soft  night-breeze.  When 
the  last  wandering  note  died  away  we  took  up 
the  refrain  "  Oh !  who  would  inhabit  this  cold 
world  alone  ?  "  and,  looking  at  the  sentinel  stars, 
thought  pityingly  of  the  exile,  alone  in  his  tent 
— a  mighty  pavilion  of  royal  purple,  which  deep- 
ening shadows  widened  into  a  solitude  vast  as 
eternity,  mysterious  as  death. 

The  singing  was  very  soft,  for  Thalia  was  cry- 
ing, as  we  discovered  by  tiny  sniffs  muffled 
behind  her  hankerchief,  and  you  know  how  con- 
tagious home-sickness  is,  and  the  sweeping  gloom 
was  oppressive  even  with  the  best  company. 
The  cheerful  day,  with  all  its  trailing  splendors, 
was  dead ;  the  fine  gold  of  sunset  became  dross. 
A  pale,  white  shining  in  the  east  announced  the 
rising  moon,  and  in  its  mystic  glow  the  moun- 
tains put  on  spectral  shapes  and  journeyed  with 
us.  A  solemn  stillness  filled  the  night  and  rested 
on  the  party  which  had  set  out  so  gayly  in  the 
morning.  One  by  one  the  voices  hushed,  and 
silence  followed,  so  intense  it  was  almost  painful. 

We  will  anticipate,  as  our  friends  the  novelists 
say,  and  follow  the  march  of  the  minstrel — one 
of  the  last  of  the  gentle  race  of  troubadours. 
We  heard  of  his  safe  arrival  at  Albuquerque  and 
at  Bernalillo.  Two  days'  journey  southward,  the 
mail-boy  reported  having  seen  him,  moving  in  a 
dazed,  bewildered  way,  mourning  for  the  little 


loo  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

doggie,  which  was  missing.  "  There  are  no 
sausage  factories  here,"  said  our  informant,  with 
a  smile  of  ghastly  significance.  "  But  a  big 
Mexican  dog  could  swallow  that  pup  like  a  pill." 

A  lively  letter  from  a  friend  in  Silver  City  re- 
corded his  passage  through  the  lower  country. 
The  Pueblo  Indians  gave  him  of  their  poor  sub- 
stance, and  made  him  at  home  in  their  mud 
hovels,  regarding  him  as  a  great  medicine-man, 
with  a  magic  box.  In  their  childish  curiosity, 
they  wanted  to  chop  open  the  cage  and  see  the 
singing-birds  inside.  At  a  little  village,  whose 
name  I  do  not  now  recall,  the  whole  population 
flocked  round  the  itinerant  He  was  a  choice 
item  for  the  local  editor  of  the  Pharos  of  the 
Occident,  a  miner  living  on  imagination,  who 
fancied  himself  a  brilliant  writer  and  financier, 
and  in  a  lurid  editorial  he  hailed  the  musician  as 
the  forerunner  of  Thomas  and  Mapleson,  and 
hinted  it  was  high  time  to  form  a  stock  company 
for  the  purpose  of  building  an  adobe  opera- 
house.  Everywhere  the  player  was  well  receiv- 
ed, till  he  reached  Socorro.  On  the  edge  of  the 
Jornado,  from  immemorial  ages  overrun  by  the 
Apache,  the  Western  Bedouin,  every  trace  of  him 
was  lost. 

The  tameless  warriors  of  Victorio's  band  are 
deaf  to  "  Hear  me,  ISTorma,"  and  I  greatly  fear 
the  gray  scalp  of  the  minstrel  is  a  trophy  in  the 
belt  of  the  red  chief,  and  that  his  poor  old  bones 
lie  unburied  in  the  treeless,  waterless,  wind-swept 
desert,  truly  named,  by  the  first  Spaniard  who 
dared  its  perils,  Jornada  del  Miter  to — Journey  of 
Death. 


CHAPTER    IX. 

TO    THE    TURQUOIS    MINES, 
(Continued.) 

Ar  evening  the  gentle  shepherd  of  New 
Mexico  leads  his  flock  from  high  pastures, 
where  the  precipitation  of  moisture  is  greatest 
and,  therefore,  grass  is  freshest,  to  the  fold, 
or  corral,  in  the  valley.  It  is  precisely  the 
pattern  of  fold  abounding  in  Palestine  and  still 
to  be  seen  on  the  outskirts  of  Alexandria — an 
enclosure  made  by  crooked  stakes  driven  in  the 
ground,  poorly  held  together  by  strips  of  raw- 
hide. No  two  are  of  the  same  length.  All 
were  twisted  and  gnarled  in  the  growing,  and 
lean  out  of  the  perpendicular.  A  shabby  fence, 
uglier  than  everything  except  a  mud  fence,  which 
the  reader  knows  is  the  superlative  ugliness.  By 
the  Tight  of  the  moon  we  noted  the  fashion  of 
the  shepherd's  Cain-and-Abel  suit  of  goatskin ; 
and,  instead  of  the  classic  crook,  wreathed  with 
garlands  gathered  in  flowery  meadows,  the  Rocky 
Mountain  Endymion  guarded  his  flock  with  a 
shotgun  and  bowie-knife,  less  fearful  of  the  wolf 
than  of  his  own  thieving  countrymen. 

We  observe  another  Asian  custom  heie,  that 
of  sleeping  on  the  roofs  in  summer.  The  heavenly 
nights  invite  one  out,  and  the  flat  housetop  is  a 
much  pleasanter  place  to  make  one's  bed  than 
the  cellar-like  interior,  with  its  earthly  scents. 
The  sluggard  Mexican,  who  has  killed  the  long 
hours  of  the  common  enemy  by  dozing  in  the 
sun,  rouses  toward  sunset  and  spreads  out  the 
colchotti  or  wool  mattress,  if  they  are  very  poor, 
or  a  bed  of  skins.  The  stairway  is  a  rickety 
ladder,  leaning  against  the  outer  wall  of  the  mud 
house,  and  the  rapidity  and  ease  with  which  the 

101 


102  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

natives  go  up  and  down  is  surprising.  I  have 
seen  women  carry  jars  of  water  on  their  head, 
not  spilling  a  drop,  as  they  ascend  the  ladder, 
touching  it  only  with  their  feet.  The  old  people — 
mummies  of  the  time  of  Cheops — go  to  bed  at 
sunset;  a  little  later  the  children  and  chickens 
hop  up  the  loose  rounds ;  then  the  lord  of  the 
estate,  and  his  dusky  spouse,  with  her  cat;  and 
lastly  the  ratty  dogs,  moving  nimbly,  as  the 
trained  ones  of  the  circus.  Haul  up  the  ladder, 
and  the  castle  is  secure.  There  is  no  fear  of 
rain.  There  is  no  dew,  no  fog  or  mist,  to  blur 
the  clear  shining  of  the  stars  above.  The  low 
wind  is  the  very  breath  of  heaven ;  the  bright 
night  is  filled  with  sleep. 

So  slept  the  Saviour  of  the  world  on  the 
housetop  of  Lazarus,  at  Bethany,  whither  he 
had  walked  in  the  cool  of  the  day.  Looking 
from  that  lowly  bed  toward  the  many  mansions 
of  his  Father's  house,  well  might  the  homeless 
guest  utter  the  pathetic  cry :  "  The  foxes  have 
holes  and  the  birds  of  the  air  have  ncste ;  but 
the  Son  of  Man  hath  not  where  to  lay  his  head." 

Near  the  City  of  the  Pueblos,  within  sight  of 
the  graceful  spire  of  the  Sisters'  Chapel,  was  a 
coyote  tearing  a  stray  lamb  to  pieces.  We  had 
met  the  ninety-and-nine  an  hour  before,  return- 
ing to  the  fold  from  the  river.  The  wild,  tame- 
less creature  there  was  in  perfect  keeping  with 
the  continued  newness  of  a  country  where  white 
men  have  lived  nearly  three  centuries.  He 
started,  looked  fearlessly  out  of  the  sage-bush, 
and  the  clear  moonlight  outlined  the  true  wolfs 
head,  with  its  fox-like  muzzle  and  sharp,  forward- 
pointed  ears.  He  glared  at  us  a  moment,  and 
then  quietly  and  leisurely  stalked  away,  amid  a 
general  lament  that  we  had  neither  gun  nor  pistol 
at  hand.  The  beast  was  of  the  "  -flfsop's  Fable  " 
breed— a  large,  handsome  fellow,  whose  pictorial 
pelt  would  have  made  an  elegant  foot-rug. 


To  the  Turquois  Mines,  Continued.  103 

Let  me  not  close  without  telling  what  became 
of  the  "  regular  bonanza."  The  day  after  our 
return  to  Santa  Fe,  the  many-named  Mexican 
called,  bringing  his  fine  chalchuite.  He  explained, 
with  impressive  gesture  and  rhetorical  flourish,  he 
was  too  poor  to  own  so  rich  a  jewel,  fit  for  the 
king's  son,  and  would  sell  it,  if  la  Senora  would 
pay  him — naming  the  price.  At  first  I  was 
appalled  at  the  magnitude  of  the  sum  ;  but  the 
stone  of  inimitable  hue,  lying  in  the  lean,  brown 
hand,  had  a  sort  of  magnetism.  The  familiar 
tint  was  charming,  matching  as  it  did  a  tiny  ring 
long  worn  for  remembrance,  and  with  much 
cracked  Spanish  and  broken  English,  a  bargain 
was  made,  and  we  parted,  with  many  a  cordial 
adios.  No,  not  even  in  the  close  confidence  of 
print  will  I  tell  you,  beloved,  the  price  of  the 
princely  jewel.  The  secret  will  go  with  me  to 
the  grave.  Enough  that  it  was  exhaustive.  I 
am  blushing  over  it  yet. 

The  following  week  I  heard  a  low  whisper  that 
Juan  Fresco  did  not  find  the  turquois  at  Los 
Cerillos  ;  but  got  it  in  a  trade  with  a  wild  savage, 
ignorant  of  its  worth.  A  Navajo,  allowed  to 
leave  the  Reservation,  under  protection  of  a  pass, 
and  pay  a  stealthy  visit  to  his  own  hunting- 
grounds,  had  let  it  go  for  four  yards  of  red  flan- 
nel.  Cool  John  had  slyly  arranged  the  whole 
affair,  and  whisked  the  stone  out  of  his  sleeve  in 
the  very  nick  of  time.  Fortune  turned  his  head, 
as  she  has  many  a  stronger  one.  He  retired  from 
the  box,  and  set  up  a  saloon,  the  "  San  Francisco," 
under  a  bower  of  cedar  boughs,  in  the  near 
mining  camp.  Being  of  a  convivial  turn,  in 
spite  of  mournful  eyes  and  voice,  at  last  accounts, 
Juan  Fresco  was  his  own  best  customer  at  the 
bar. 

However,  I  had  my  costly  prize,  and  in  the 
seclusion  of  my  own  room  gloated  over  it,  and  fear- 


104  The  Land  of  the  I^ueblos. 

ful  of  burglars,  hid  it  at  night  under  the  edge  of  the 
carpet  behind  the  bureau.  After  much  delibera- 
tion regarding  the  shape  in  which  it  would  best 
appear,  I  sent  the  chalchuite  to  the  leading  jewel- 
er of  New  York.  Too  precious  for  the  mail,  it 
went  express,  and  I  carefully  held  a  receipt 
for  its  full  value.  In  good  time  the  little  lavender- 
box  returned  by  mail.  I  untied  the  string  with 
nervous  haste  and  lo  !  my  pattern  locket 
lapped  in  red  cotton,  and  the  "  regular  bonanza." 

A  brief  note  explained  Messrs.  B.  &  B's  "  regret 
to  state  the  sample  of  turquois  will  not  endure 
polish  or  cutting.  The  color  is  a  mere  surface 
stain  on  gneiss,  and  easily  scales  off,  exposing 
the  brown  stone,  as  you  may  readily  discover  by 
trying  it  with  your  scissors-point.  We  have  re- 
ceived several  such  specimens  from  New  Mexico. 
They  have  no  commercial  value.  This  has  none 
whatever,  except  to  its  owner." 

Then  I  felt  like  the  tender  poet  who  sends  off 
a  song  that  is  his  heart's  delight,  and  receives 
next  week  a  very  precious  letter,  in  familiar 
handwriting,  accompanied  by  a  printed  circular, 
bearing  the  awful  words, "  Declined,  with  thanks." 


Yesterday  I  examined  a  collection  of  relics — 
not  exquisitely  beautiful,  but  exquisitely  old 
— from  various  points  along  the  valleys  of  the 
San  Pedro,  the  Gila,  and  the  Rio  Grande.  They 
were  mainly  broken  potteries,  a  few  sacred 
whispering-stones  from  old  estufas,  rude  arms  of 
iztliy  and  the  familiar  flint  arrows,  such  as  have 
been  discovered  in  every  portion  of  the  globe 
where  there  are  graves  of  men.  Among  many 
trinkets  offered,  I  chose  a  little  looking-glass  of 
iztli,  and  an  amulet  of  chalchuite  from  the  ruins 
of  a  prehistoric  city  near  El  Paso.  It  was  close 
to  the  Texas  line,  and  within  the  limit  of  the 
mound-builders'  region.  I  selected  these  trifles 


To  the   Turquois  Mines,  Continued.  105 

because  they  were  feminine  belongings,  and 
brought  me  nearer  than  the  pipes  and  hatchets 
could  bring  me  to  my  dead  and  gone  sisters. 
The  mirror,  about  half  the  size  of  your  hand,  is 
made  of  iztli,  or  obsidian,  an  exceedingly  hard, 
vitreous  substance,  plentiful  in  volcanic  countries, 
of  smoky  tint,  and  capable  of  high  polish.  The 
art  of  working  this  intractable  material  is  prac 
tically  lost  in  our  times,  but  when  wrought  by  the 
Indigene  was  useful  as  iron  or  tempered  steel.* 

The  amulet  and  twenty  beads  of  chalchitite 
were  hidden  in  a  black  glazed  jar,  of  the  shape 
made  by  natives  to-day,  buried  in  a  cave  many 
feet  below  the  surface  of  the  ground.  It  was 
accidentally  opened,  in  1878,  by  a  party  of  miners 
digging  for  silver.  Probably  a  treasure-house, 
abandoned  at  the  last  moment,  when  the  besieged 
inhabitants  fled  before  a  victorious  army.  Stone 
hammers  were  found  near  the  cave,  arrow-heads, 
hatchets,  serrated  swords  of  iztli,  like  the  Aztecan, 
and  half  a  human  skull,  evidently  broken  by  a 
blow  of  the  hatchet  or  tomahawk. 

The  amulet  is  perhaps  half  an  inch  long,  one- 
eighth  of  an  inch  thick — an  irregular  square, 
rudely  carved  and  smoothed,  probably  by  rub- 
bing with  another  stone.  The  veining  on  one 
side  gives  the  semblance  of  a  star.  A  hard  tool 
and  patient  hand  must  have  been  required  to 
drill  a  hole  through  this  stubborn  stone.  The 
string  which  threaded  it  has  gone  to  dust ;  the 
hand  which  carved  it  and  the  race  of  which  it  is 
a  faint  trace  are  vanished  into  the  voiceless  past. 
Long  lines  of  prostrate  walls,  miles  of  acequias, 
or  irrigating  ditches,  broken  potteries,  profusely 
scattered,  indicate  a  dense  population  once  held 
the  valley  near  El  Paso,  and  lived  in  cities  con- 

*  It  is  said  by  Pliny  to  have  been  discovered  first  in  Ethiopia,  by 
a  man  named  Obsidms.  Hence  the  name.  Gems  and  whole  statues 
were  made  of  it.  He  also  speaks  of  four  elephants  of  obsidian 
dedicated  by  Augustus  in  the  Temple  of  Concord. 


106  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

taining  twenty  thousand  or  thirty  thousand  souls. 
There  is  no  reason  to  believe  the  modern  inhab- 
itants of  this  country  belong  to  a  proud  line, 
shorn  of  its  ancient  splendors.  They  have  no 
sort  of  history,  and  among  a  people  without 
written  language,  poetry,  or  music,  tradition  soon 
becomes  confused.  All  their  remains  and  three 
hundred  years  of  continuous  history  show  they 
have  steadily  declined  in  power  and  numbers ; 
but  they  are  and  have  always  been  miserably 
poor.  Their  fabrics,  arms,  architecture  are  of  the 
coarsest,  most  primitive  description. 

The  vessels  of  silver  and  of  gold  described  by 
early  explorers  to  a  waiting  and  expectant  world 
have  not  been  found  in  this  or  any  other  spot  in 
New  Mexico.  They  existed  only  in  the  fevered 
fancies  of  adventurers,  blinded  by  their  own  im- 
aginings, drunk  with  their  own  conceits.  If 
metals  we  count  valuable  were  concealed  in  the 
ancient  treasure-house,  they  are  lost  in  the  deep 
grave  with  the  dead  centuries.  Only  these  trifling 
memorials  have  escaped  the  common  doom. 

My  amulet  is  a  sorry  love-token  ;  yet,  for  the 
sake  of  the  soft  meaning  it  once  bore,  I  touch 
the  trinket  lightly.  Rude  in  outline,  utterly  lack- 
ing in  grace  and  luster,  it  represents  a  Western 
idyl. 

Young  were  the  lovers,  I  know  (for  love  is 
ever  young),  and  to  eyes  beloved  each  was  beau- 
tiful and  true.  Perhaps  she  stood  like  Ruth 
among  the  corn,  as  the  warm  blood  flushed  his 
face,  when  he  bound  it  with  his  love  as  a  crown 
unto  her,  fastening  it  with  vows,  and  promises, 
and  never-ending  kisses.  Or  did  he  set  it  as  a 
seal  upon  her  arm,  making  its  pulses  beat  fast  to 
a  new  music,  under  the  secret  magic  of  its  circle? 
Or  was  it  hung  on  her  neck,  above  the  heart 
which  fluttered  like  a  caught  bird  at  its  touch,  in 
the  hour  which  comes  but  once  in  a  lifetime  ? 


To  the   Turquois  Mines,  Continued.  107 

Ah,  well  you  know,  gentle  reader,  how  she  cher- 
ished the  keepsake,  and  pondered  it  over  when 
his  face  was  not  there,  little  dreaming  how  one 
of  a  race  unheard  of  should,  centuries  afterward, 
dream  over  it  too,  and  call  back  her  spirit  from 
out  the  unrecorded  past,  her  gracious  presence 
and  tender  words. 

All,  all  gone  now.  My  young  mound-build- 
ers— if  mound-builders  they  were — sleep  with  the 
primeval  giants.  And,  while  a  thousand  wonder- 
ments hover  about  the  poor  keepsake,  this  only 
we  do  know :  that  they  walked  blindly  along  the 
path  we  call  life  ;  slowly,  and  with  many  a  failure, 
worked  out  their  destiny.  They  loved,  sinned 
and  suffered,  died,  and  were  forgotten.  The  sur- 
face of  the  country  is  altered  since  that  old  love- 
making.  Strong  cities  are  leveled  with  the 
plains,  tribes  are  scattered,  languages  lost,  whole 
races  are  extinct ;  but  humanity  remains  the 
same — the  one  thing  that  will  outlast  the  world. 
These  dead-and-gone  tribes  were  not  foreign  to 
us.  They  were  of  our  own  blood,  our  elder 
brethren;  and  as  their  names  and  deeds  are  blot- 
ted out,  leaving  not  a  memory,  so  we  are  moving 
forward  in  the  resistless  march,  holding  in  our 
hands  messages  appealing  to  futurity — messages 
addressed  to  darkness,  dropped  into  oblivion. 

The  relics  from  the  Rio  Grande  were  buried 
down  deep.  Perhaps  my  young  lovers  whispered 
the  sweet  words  which  made  Eden  Paradise,  be- 
fore the  witching  eyes  of  Marie  Stuart  turned  the 
hearts  of  men ;  before  Cleopatra  shone ;  before 
Lucretia  spun.  The  chalchuite  might  lie  in  this 
rare,  dry  air  till  the  crack  of  doom  and  suffer  no 
change,  as  our  old  earth  swings  through  the  con- 
stellations, year  by  year.  Possibly,  its  wearer 
was  contemporary  with  the  man  of  Natchez, 
whose  bones  were  exhumed  not  long  ago,  under 
the  Mississippi  bluffs,  in  strata  said  to  prove  him 
not  less  than  one  hundred  thousand  years  old. 


io8  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

If  the  story  were  told,  we  might  not  care  to 
know  what  manner  of  man  the  bygone  mound- 
builder  was.  His  history  must  have  been  one  of 
wars,  and  the  struggles  of  the  chiefs  were  trivial 
and  petty  to  that  of  mighty  Hector  and  Aga- 
memnon, if  we  accept  the  testimony  of  the  re- 
mains which  still  exist.  Let  us  believe  we  lost 
no  grand  epic  in  the  Iliad  of  the  lost  race. 

The  great  historian  wisely  says  :  "  The  annals 
of  mankind  have  never  been  written,  can  never 
be  written,  nor  would  it  be  within  the  limits  of 
human  capacity  to  read  them,  if  they  were  writ- 
ten. We  have  a  leaf  or  two  torn  from  the  great 
book  of  human  fate,  as  it  flutters  in  the  storm- 
winds  ever  sweeping  across  the  earth ;  but  we 
have  no  other  light  to  guide  us  across  the  track 
which  all  must  tread,  save  the  long  glimmering 
of  yesterdays,  which  grows  so  swiftly  fainter  and 
fainter,  as  the  present  fades  off  into  the  past." 


CHAPTER  X. 

AMONG   THE   ARCHIVES. — THINGS   NEW   AND   OLD. 

NORTH  of  El  Palacio,  is  a  waste  spot  of 
earth,  covering  perhaps  half  an  acre.  It  contains 
neither  grass,  weeds,  nor  moss,  not  even  a  strag- 
gling sage-bush  or  forlorn  cactus ;  nothing  but 
bare  desert  sand  and  a  solitary  cotton- wood  tree, 
whose  luxuriant  leafage  gives  no  sign  of  its 
struggle  for  life  in  a  region  waterless  ten  months 
of  the  year.  High  adobe  walls  bound  the  sterile 
enclosure  on  two  sides  ;  the  third  is  occupied  by 
government  buildings ;  and  the  fourth  is  partly 
wall  and  partly  abandoned  offices,  always  locked 
and  unused  since  the  brave  days  when  the  Span- 
iards lorded  it  like  princes  in  "  The  Palace." 


Among  the  Archives. —  Things  New  and  Old.     109 

Ever  a  lover  of  lonesome  places,  I  had  often 
wistfully  eyed  these  mysterious  apartments  ;  and 
one  day,  being  sadly  in  want  of  entertainment, 
hunted  up  the  keys  and  sallied  across  the  back 
yard,  determined  to  explore  the  secret  places. 
The  first  door  I  tried  to  open  was  made  of  heavy 
double  plank,  studded  with  broad-headed  nails. 
I  fitted  a  key  into  the  rough,  old-fashioned  lock, 
and,  pushing  with  all  my  strength,  it  slowly 
swung  on  rusty  hinges,  into  a  room,  perhaps 
seventeen  by  twenty  feet  in  size,  barely  high 
enough  for  a  man  to  stand  upright  in.  As  I 
stepped  on  the  loose  pine  boards  of  the  floor,  a 
swarm  of  mice  scampered  to  their  burrows  in 
the  walls,  and  the  deathlike  smell  of  mildew  and 
decay  smote  the  afflicted  sense.  Well  for  the 
chronicles  is  it  there  are  no  rats  in  the  territory. 
Involuntarily  I  paused  at  the  entrance,  to  let  the 
ghosts  fly  out;  and  several  minutes  passed  before 
my  eyes,  accustomed  to  the  darkness  of  this 
treasure-house,  could  see  the  shame  of  its 
neglect. 

I  had  entered  the  historic  room  of  New  Mex- 
ico !  Tumbled  into  barrels  and  boxes,  tossed  on 
the  floor  in  moist  piles,  lay  the  written  records 
of  events  stretching  over  a  period  of  more  than 
three  hundred  years,  the  archives  of  a  Province 
known  as  Nueva  Espagna,  large  as  France.  In 
an  atmosphere  less  dry  than  this  they  would 
have  rotted  ages  ago.  Nothing  but  the  extreme 
purity  of  the  air  saved  them  from  destruction. 

It  was  mid-winter,  and  melted  snow  slowly 
trickled  through  the  primitive  roofing  of  mud 
and  gravel.  The  sun  shone  brightly,  and,  though 
days  had  passed  since  the  last  white  spot  disap- 
peared from  the  surface  of  the  earth,  still  a 
hideous  ooze  filtered  through  the  ashes  and  clay 
overhead,  and  dripped  in  inky  streams  down  the 
pine  rafters  and  walls.  I  am  told  the  house  was 


no  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

anciently  used  as  a  stable.  If  the  first  Spanish 
commandants  and  governor-generals  kept  their 
horses  in  this  windowless  cave,  sorry  am  I  for 
the  gallant  steeds  they  professed  to  love  next  to 
their  knightly  honor  and  the  ladies. 

The  names  of  some  of  the  Conquestadores 
have  faded  from  history,  and  others  live  only  in 
tradition.  Nearly  all  the  earlier  important  records 
have  been  destroyed.  They  accumulated  rapidly 
in  immense  masses,  and  the  heavy  lumber  was 
shifted  from  place  to  place  by  officials,  to  make 
room  for  things  more  valuable.  Careless  hands 
and  the  slow  wear  of  time  were  not  as  effectual 
in  blotting  them  out  as  a  certain  chief  executive 
— a  lineal  descendant  of  Genseric,  appointed 
by  President  of  the  United  States — who  made 
his  administration  memorable  by  building  a  bon- 
fire of  parchments  and  papers,  filled  with  price- 
less material,  never  to  be  replaced.  He  also  sold 
a  quantity  as  waste  paper.  By  happy  accident, 
a  portion  of  this  merchandise  was  afterward 
recovered,  though  one  might  think  it  as  well 
employed  in  wrapping  tea  and  sugar  as  going  to 
decay  in  this  neglected  den.  We  grow  indignant 
over  the  spirit  which  could  not  spare  one  reader 
of  the  picture-writing  of  the  Aztecs  or  the  quip- 
pus  of  Peru.  What  shall  we  say  of  the  man  in 
authority  who,  in  the  best  age  of  culture  and 
research,  abuses  a  trust  like  this,  who  deliber- 
ately fired  whole  wagon-loads  of  manuscripts  of 
the  deepest  interest  to  the  archaeologist,  the  his- 
torian, and  student. 

He  had  not  even  the  excuse  of  the  first  Arch- 
bishop of  Mexico,  who  burnt  a  mountain  of  manu- 
scripts in  the  market-place,  stigmatizing  them 
as  magic  scrolls  ;  and  was  more  guilty  than  Car- 
dinal Ximines,  who  in  the  trial  by  fire  alone 
could  exercise  the  sorcery  concealed  in  the  Arabic 
manuscripts  of  Granada. 


Among  the  Archives. —  Things  New  and  Old.     in 

The  delusions  of  fifteen  hundred  years  are  not 
easily  put  to  flight,  and  there  might  be  a  drop  of 
charity  for  the  bigotry  and  intolerance  of  the 
Spaniard ;  but  the  destroyer  of  history  in  New 
Mexico  has  no  defense.  I  suppress  his  name. 
An  archaeologist  from  New  England  is  now  busy 
among  a  heap  of  the  sold  documents,  piled  away 
in  the  back  room  of  an  old  shop  by  a  citizen  of 
Santa  Fe,  who  forsaw  that  they  might  one  day 
be  of  interest,  possibly  of  value. 

It  was  my  pleasant  work  to  help  in  overhauling 
the  state  papers,  and  the  quiet  hours  of  careful 
work  were  well  rewarded.  All  sorts  of  papers 
were  tossed  together  in  the  cavernous  hole.  I  dug 
out  quantities  of  printed  matter  of  recent  date, 
mixed  with  the  old  and  weather-stained  official 
documents,  letters,  copies  of  reports  and  dis- 
patches, marking  political  changes  from  1580, 
when  Santa  Fe  was  founded  by  Don  Antonio  de 
Espego,  to  the  year  1879.  The  province  at  first 
was  ruled  by  military  governors,  appointed  by 
the  viceroys  of  Mexico,  and  communication  with 
them  and  with  Spain  was  so  rare  they  reigned  as 
despots,  in  haughty  pride  of  place,  and  bitterly 
abused  their  power  to  kill,  enslave,  plunder,  and 
subdue  the  heathen  claimed  for  an  inheritance. 

The  first  MS.  opened  bore  the  date  1620.  It 
was  illuminated  with  heavy  seals  and  signed  with 
strange,  puzzling  rubricas ;  but  the  signature 
was  completely  effaced.  It  was  part  of  a  frozen 
chunk,  tied  with  hempen  cord,  and  peeled  off  a 
block  wet  through  and  through.  The  excellence 
of  the  parchment-like  paper  kept  it  from  dissolv- 
ing into  a  lump  of  sticky  pulp. 

Some  papers  were  soaked  so  it  was  necessary 
to  spread  them  on  boards,  to  be  dried  in  the  sun, 
before  being  deposited  in  a  place  of  safety.  Rich 
treasure  for  the  mining  of  the  future  historian. 
The  eternal  west  wind  fluttered  mockingly  among 


112  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

crumpled  leaves  torn  from  the  book  of  human 
fate,  and  a  sudden  gust  whirled  a  yellow  scrap 
high  up  in  the  branches  of  the  cotton-wood  tree. 
With  the  help  of  a  Mexican  boy,  I  rescued  from 
ruin  what  proved  a  portion  of  the  journal  of 
Otervin,  military  commandant  of  Nueva  Espagna, 
who  undertook  to  reduce  the  Pueblos  to  subjection 
in  1 68 1,  and  found  them  too  many  for  him. 

Mixed  with  high  heaps  of  worthless  trash 
were  worn  and  water-stained  fragments,  precious 
as  the  last  leaves  of  the  Sybil.  These,  pieced 
together,  were  smoothed  with  care  and  laid  by 
for  after  reference.  Poor,  perishing  records  of 
ambitions  baffled  and  hopes  unfulfilled ;  and, 
dreaming  over  the  names  of  men  who  sought 
immortality  on  earth  and  now  sleep  forgotten,  I 
deeply  felt  their  teaching — the  law  that  any  last- 
ing condition  is  impossible  in  the  hurrying  inarch 
we  call  life,  where  nothing  is  constant  but  change, 
nothing  certain  but  death. 

Through  the  lazy  Mexican  afternoons  I  groped 
along  the  musty  annals  with  steady  purpose,  and 
in  the  shadowy  history  wandered  back  two  cen- 
turies. Among  the  MSS.  T  lived  in  the  days 
when  William  of  Orange  fought  the  grand  battle 
which  decided  the  fate  of  the  Stuarts  and  estab- 
lished English  dominion  over  the  seas ;  when  the 
sun  of  Poland  was  sinking  in  endless  night  with 
the  dying  Sobieski,  our  patriot  hero  ot  early 
romance,  whose  name,  consecrated  by  poetry  and 
heroism,  dwells  in  memory  with  Emmet  and 
Kossuth ;  when  Madame  de  Maintenon,  at  the 
court  of  the  king,  who  was  worshipped  as  a  demi- 
god, was  writing  long  letters  of  the  fatigues  of 
court,  and  how  she  worried  from  morning  till 
midnight,  trying  to  reconcile  the  irreconcilable, 
and  amuse  the  old  tyrant,  who  was  past  being 
amused.  Spain  had  been  shaken  by  desperate 
wars,  and  out  of  armies  nursed  in  victories  came 


Among  the  Archives. —  Things  New  and  Old.     113 

a  host  of  adventurers  to  the  New  World,  where 
glory  and  fortune  were  reported  as  waiting  for 
every  newcomer.  They  were  not  colonists, 
emigrants,  as  with  us,  who  had  everything  to 
gain  and  nothing  to  lose ;  but  men  of  the  sword, 
used  to  command,  who  loved  no  music  so  well  as 
trumpet  and  drum,  the  rattle  and  clang  of  arms. 
Reckless  gamblers  as  Spaniards  have  been  in  all 
ages  everywhere,  they  were  ready  to  stake  vast 
possessions  on  a  venture  in  mines  reported  richer 
than  ancient  Ophir,  and  to  risk  assured  fame 
for  possible  conquest,  among  nations  whose  walled 
cities  were  described  as  equal  to  the  best  strong- 
holds of  Islam.  The  rich  mediaeval  glow  en- 
veloping some  of  the  reports  charms  the  literary 
forager,  not  overfond  of  statistics,  who  loves  no 
figures  so  well  as  figures  of  speech.  Men  in 
their  summer  prime  organized  roving  expeditions 
in  quest  of  fortune,  gallant  freebooters,  made 
ferocious  by  greed  of  gold,  who  started  gayly,  as 
to  a  regatta,  for  the  unexplored  province  of 
Nueva  Espagna. 

They  found  the  Promised  Land  one  of  which 
the  greater  part  must  forever  remain  an  uninhab- 
itable magnificence.  Yet  everything  reminded 
them  of  old  Spain,  especially  of  the  Castiles. 
The  chain  of  snowy  peaks,  accessible  only  to  the 
untamable  Apache,  projected  against  the  speck- 
less  blue  the  blade  of  white  teeth  which  suggested 
the  name  of  Sierra  Nevada.  The  dry,  scorched 
table-lands,  league  after  league,  stretching  away 
under  the  blazing  sun  a  shadeless  desert,  were 
like  the  mesas  in  the  dreariest  portions  of  the 
kingdom  of  Philip — and  the  mud  hovels  of  adobe, 
with  open  apertures  for  windows,  were  a  perpet- 
ual reminder  of  the  homeless  habitations  of  the 
Castilian  peasantry. 

The  few  rich  valleys  (pasturas)  capable  of  cul- 
tivation by  irrigation  were  not  unlike  the  vegas 
8 


114  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

of  the  East,  and  little  streams  of  melted  snow- 
water, filtered  down  from  the  "iced  mountain- 
top,"  cold  as  snow,  clear  as  glass,  still  bear  the 
lovely  names  of  the  rills  sparkling  along  the 
Alpujarras. 

The  old  hidalgoes  looked  for  better  things  than 
half-naked  savages,  mud  huts,  and  stunted  corn- 
fields. Sterile  and  forbidding  as  the  country  ap- 
peared, they  believed  an  inheritance  was  reserved 
for  them  behind  the  gloomy  mountain  walls,  be- 
yond the  awful  canon,  where  the  black,  rushing 
river  is  shut  in  by  sheer  precipices  fifteen  hundred 
feet  high.  Sustained  by  a  faculty  of  self-persua- 
sion equaled  by  no  other  people  on  the  face  of 
the  earth,  they  pushed  on  and  on  through  the 
very  heart  of  the  wilderness,  nearly  to  the  present 
site  of  Omaha.  This  was  more  than  three  hun- 
dred years  ago  ;  yet  are  the  novel-writers  com- 
plaining that  we  have  no  antiquity,  no  mystery, 
no  dim  lights  and  deep  shadows,  where  the 
imagination  of  the  story-teller  may  flower  and 
bear  fruit. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

AMONG    THE    ARCHIVES. — A    LOVE    LETTER. 

ONE  day,  while  mousing  or,  as  President  Lin- 
coln used  to  say,  browsing  among  the  manu- 
scripts, and  musing  about  the  dead  and-gone 
heroes,  and  how  times  have  altered  since  they 
rode  out  like  Paladins  of  romance  to  tempt  Fortune 
in  her  high  places,  I  came  on  a  letter  which  dif- 
fered from  the  commonplace  documents  littered 
about,  and  was  not  emblazoned  with  the  splash 
of  any  great  seal.  It  was  very  yellow  and  musty, 
stained  in  one  corner  by  a  blue  book  thrown  on 
it  in  the  time  of  President  Johnson.  It  required 


Among  the  Archives. — A  Love  Letter.         rij 

the  daintiest  handling.  Carefully  I  unfolded  the 
sheet,  almost  thick  as  vellum  and  in  danger  of 
dropping  to  tatters,  and  marked  a  spot  once 
sealed  with  wax,  flaked  off  long  ago.  The 
address  was  Antonio  Eusebio  de  Cubero,  Secre- 
tary of  Gen.  Don  Diego  de  Vargas,  Governor  of 
Nueva  Mejico.  I  opened  the  quaint  missive,  and 
lo !  a  love-letter,  dated  Seville,  November,  1692. 
It  began  with  stately,  sweet  salute  :  "  To  my  own 
true  love  and  faithful  knight,  from  his  Rosita  de 
Castile."  Like  the  Dantean  lovers, 

"  I  turned  no  further  leaf." 

Nearly  two  centuries  the  antique  billet  had 
lain  entombed  in  this  earthy  sepulchre ;  now 
would  I  bring  it  to  the  light  again,  and,  tenderly 
folding  the  sheet,  I  bore  it  to  the  quiet  of  my 
own  room,  for  reading  at  leisure. 

This  is  the  way  it  runs,  written  in  diminutive 
hand,  indistinct  at  the  beginning,  now  almost 
illegible.  With  tender  words,  not  always  in  cor- 
rectest  spelling,  the  little  Rose  of  Castile  writes  to 
Eusebio  Antonio,  that  her  father  and  big  brother 
wage  war  in  Algeria.  She  had  just  learned  to 
sing,  with  her  mandolin,  a  madrigal,  which  she 
quotes  at  length  and  will  not  bear  translation.  I 
cannot  catch  the  subtle  essence,  the  exquisite 
Spanish-Arab  perfume  and  prison  it  in  harsh 
English.  I  know  nothing  in  our  language  so 
nearly  approaching  the  dainty  love- ditty  as  the 
song  of  Burns,  which  will  live  till  the  last  lover 
dies  : 

"Had  we  never  loved  so  kindly, 
Had  we  never  loved  so  blindly, 
Never  met  and  never  parted, 
We  had  ne'er  been  broken-hearted.1 

She  told  how,  when  the  young  moon  was  shin- 
ing, and  the  fat,  cross  duenna  was  fast  asleep, 
she  had  crept  from  her  side  and  out  of  reach  of 


Ii6  The  Land  of  tht  Pueblos. 

her  snoring,  to  wander  along  the  Guadalquiver, 
where  the  citron  shade  is  deepest  and  the  silver 
lilies  shadow  singing  waters.  She  was  tired  of 
dances  and  of  flattery,  and  that  odious  Manuelita, 
and,  lighted  only  by  the  moon  and  the  glow- 
worm, the  maiden  lingered  by  the  fountain  till 
the  bell  in  the  tower  rang  two.  "  There,  by  the 
bed  of  sweet  basil — dost  remember  Eusebio 
caro  ?  " 

And  what  for,  lady  fair  ?  Ay  de  mi  !  Is  there 
a  reader  so  dull  as  not  to  know,  without  telling, 
'twas  to  dream,  and  to  dream,  and  to  dream  ? 

Easy  to  picture  her  in  graceful  youth  and  all 
beautiful.  The  delicate  Murillo  head ;  the  An- 
dalusian  eyes  glancing  this  way  and  that  from  the 
arched  window  Moresque  ;  shyly  she  flitted  out 
the  barred  gate  among  the  myrtles,  stepping  so 
lightly  she  scarcely  startled  the  dove  who  stirred 
in  her  nest ;  the  flower-like  face  draped  by  the 
veiling,  envious  rebosa,  held  close  by  the  rose- 
leaf  hand ;  the  one  bright  circlet  shining  on  the 
taper  finger — can  you  not  see  her  stealing  along 
through  the  golden  orange  orchard,  the  almond's 
snow-white  glitter?  There,  with  infinite  love 
and  longing,  with  lips  waiting  to  be  kissed,  she 
listened  to  the  nightingale's  song  to  the  rose, 
starting  at  the  silken  rustle  of  her  dress ;  and  as 
the  strokes  of  the  bell  shook  the  giant  pillars  of 
the  cathedral,  fleeing  like  a  guilty  thing  back  to 
the  snoring,  fat  aunt.  Only  she  lingered  a 
moment  to  look  up  at  the  indigo  sky  and  the 
slim  Giralda  tower,  there  by  the  bed  of  sweet 
basil — "  dost  remember,  Eusebio  caro  ?  " 

Such  was  the  soft  Rosita  de  Castile,  and  she 
asks  the  old  question  :  When  dost  thoti  dream  of 
me,  dearest  ?  It  is  a  sort  of  treachery  to  publish 
the  deep  secret,  and  I  beg  pardon  of  the  shade 
of  the  gentle  lady,  if  it  lingers  round  the  hard 
clay  of  which  these  walls  are  made.  0  tender 


Among  the  Archives. — A  Love  Letter,         117 

love  !  O  fond  young  heart,  that  stopped  beating 
nearly  two  hundred  years  ago  !  I  fear  Don  An- 
tonio Eusebio  was  hardly  so  true  as  thou  wast. 
Knights-errant,  tilting  through  the  New  World, 
had  no  such  quest  as  the  blameless  Sir  Galahad, 
though  they  pushed  the  "  pundonor  "  to  the  very 
verge  of  nonsense.  Cortez  set  an  example  which 
his  successors  were  quick  to  follow.  Under  the 
garb  of  gallantry,  they  wedded  paramour,  and 
with  high  Castilian  pride  proclaimed  their  honor 
bright  when  they  were  ready  to  fight  dragons 
and  die  in  steel  harness  full  knightly. 

You  remember,  reader  dear,  Millais's  "  Hugue- 
not Lovers  "?  Of  course,  you  must,  for  you  have 
often  seen  it,  and  even  the  poor  prints  retain  some 
hint  of  the  lovely  original.  In  all  her  long  gal- 
leries Art  has  no  fairer  creation.  It  is  lovelier 
even  than  Ary  Scheffer's  "  Marguerite,"  than  the 
fallen  "Francescadi  Rimini."  The  loving  arms 
clinging  to  the  handsome  youth;  the  wistful, 
upturned  face,  so  anxious,  pale  and  tearful,  on 
the  eve  of  parting,  which  her  fears  make  sad  as 
St.  Bartholomew's — such  charm  was  in  the  face 
of  my  Rosita  de  Castile ;  mine  by  right  of  adop- 
tion, though  she  died  more  than  a  century  before 
I  was  born. 

How  he  looked  we  know  by  the  portraits  of 
Velasquez.  Tall  and  stately  was  he,  lithe  and 
sinewy  as  one  skilled  in  arms,  manly  sports,  and 
fond  of  hounds  and  hunting;  a  long  lean  hand, 
with  blazing  jewels — one  a  precious  fire-opal,  the 
Girasol  of  Zimapan  ;  olive  skin  and  heavy  brows  ; 
eyes  like  sharp  stilettos ;  peaked  beard,  curled 
mustachios,  trimmed  and  perfumed  ;  black  dress- 
coat,  silken  hose,  silver  shoe-buckles,  spotless 
neck-ruff;  chains  and  ribbons  of  honor;  golden 
cross  richly  broidered  on  his  mantle;  jingling 
spurs,  the  mark  of  knighthood — this  was  Don 
Antonio  Eusebio  de  Cubero,  who  thought  to 


Ii8  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

swell  his  fortune  and  fill  the  measure  of  his  fame 
under  the  royal  banner  upheld  by  Governor- 
General  Vargas. 

Nor  must  we  forget  to  name  the  good  long 
rapier,  worn  yet  in  old  Spain,  where  the  sword 
forever  stays  the  scepter.  Add  to  this  pictorial 
dress  the  graces  which  wait  on  youth — refined 
courtesy  and  lofty  presence,  come  of  the  habit  of 
command — and  you  have  the  secretary  of  the 
hero  who  went,  saw,  and  conquered  Santa  Fe  for 
the  crown  of  Spain. 

The  beloved  Eusebio  Antonio  kept  no  copy  of 
his  vows  and  promises ;  but  I  warrant,  when 
there  were  none  but  the  angels  to  hear,  they  were 
given — made  binding  and  strong.  In  fair  Seville 
the  young  lovers  stole  from  the  lights  and  the 
dancing,  down  by  the  bed  of  sweet  basil,  to  seal 
their  contract  with  solemn  oaths. 

"Mixed  with  kisses,  sweeter,  sweeter 
Than  anything  on  earth.'1 

The  dear  Eusebio  was  lured  away  from  Rosita's 
bower  to  that  New  World  which  is  the  old. 
Across  the  sea  had  floated,  faint  and  far,  like 
dying  echoes  coming  near,  stories  of  a  land  of 
wild  men  and  beasts,  strange  birds,  and  hissing 
serpents ;  of  mountains  of  rock  inscribed  with 
mystic  hieroglyphs,  and  terraced  pyramids,  up- 
holding undying  fires — temples  the  incense  of 
whose  altars  ascended  forever  into  a  sky  of 
speckless  sapphire.  These  were  the  regions  of 
finest  furs,  of  gold-dust  and  ivory,  of  silver,  pearls, 
and  precious  stones,  all  to  be  had  for  the  gather- 
ing. Such  tales  were  as  singing  sirens,  as  airy 
hands  beckoning  in  the  shadowy  distances  of 
dim  and  unknown  shores. 

What  wonder  the  young  men  were  fired  with 
the  idea  of  enriching  impoverished  estates  by  the 
plunder  of  opulent  cities,  and  old  men  approved 
their  resolution  to  grasp  some  portion  of  this 


Among  the  Archives. — A  Love  Letter.         119 

wealth,  tc  march  with  triumphant  banners 
through  the  length  and  breadth  of  the  land,  all 
the  while  striking  stout  blows  for  Holy  Cross  ? 

In  that  age  of  few  books,  when  writing  was  a 
clerkly  accomplishment,  there  had  come  down 
from  the  fathers  many  traditions  of  the  hero  who 
had  wrested  the  scepter  from  the  hand  of  Ata- 
hualpa  on  the  heights  of  the  Andes.  The  dis- 
coverer of  the  Mississippi  was  a  century  asleep 
under  its  rushing  waters.  They  had  heard  the 
name  and  fame  of  the  peerless  Englishman — sea- 
man, soldier,  courtier,  poet,  historian — who 
sought  a  city  of  gold  on  the  banks  of  the  Oronoco. 
Nor  could  they  believe  that  genius  and  valor  died 
when  the  aged  paralytic,  beggared  and  heart- 
broken, laid  his  head  on  the  block,  saying  :  "  It 
matters  little  how  the  head  lieth,  so  that  the 
heart  be  right,"  the  noblest  head  that  ever  rolled 
in  English  dust. 

The  supernatural  swayed  men's  minds  in  those 
days,  and  myriads  of  imaginary  foes  were  to  be 
fought,  besides  the  beasts  in  their  dens  and  the 
naked,  painted  savage.  No  doubt  that  Antonio 
Eusebio  de  Cubero  felt  equal  to  every  danger  he 
must  face — the  perilous  voyage,  and  the  many 
miseries  which  Rosita's  fears  magnified  out  of  all 
bounds. 

The  parting  for  years  so  weary  shook  the  heart 
of  the  little  Rose.  Better  than  I  can  tell,  my 
reader  knows  it.  The  lingering  clasp  of  hands, 
the  yearning  gaze,  the  tears,  the  vows,  the  pray- 
ers ;  the  slow  ship  (there  was  no  steamer  then), 
with  gay  pennons  and  fluttering  signals,  sailing 
straight  into  the  sunset,  into  eternity,  away,  away 
out  of  the  world ;  a  fading  sail  on  the  flushed 
water,  a  speck  on  the  horizon's  edge  ;  he  is  gone, 
taking  with  him  her  happiness,  her  smiles,  her 
passionate  young  heart. 

But  they  would  return,  those  Caballeros  on  the 


I2O  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

deck  of  the  "  Columella,"  heroes  every  one, 
bringing  the  wealth  of  Pizarro  and  the  glory  of 
Cortez.  The  thought  was  cheer  and  comfort  to 
Rosita  in  the  long,  slow  waiting — one  of  the 
hardest  things  to  be  learned  in  the  lesson  of  lov- 
ing. Men  have  a  thousand  objects  to  live  for — 
the  whole  world  is  theirs,  and  in  their  changeful, 
many-colored  life  love  is  only  one  slender,  shin- 
ing thread;  women  have  nothing  but  their  hearts. 
He  went  out  to  a  field  of  limitless  possibilities, 
filled  with  the  charm  of  novelty,  variety,  adven- 
ture; she  to  her  maiden  bower,  her  lute,  her 
embroidery,  to  dream  over  the  love-words  till  his 
very  name  would  thrill  and  send  the  blood  danc- 
ing through  her  veins ;  to  wait  through  the  dull 
sameness  of  empty  days,  dropping  one  by  one 
into  weary,  silent  nights;  to  watch  the  last  light 
against  the  towers,  the  last  sparkles  on  the  sea, 
making  it  a  sea  of  glass  mingled  with  fire,  and 
entreat  the  Mother  of  Sorrows  with  piteous 
prayers  for  the  wanderer  in  the  vague,  far-off 
country  beyond  them;  to  sicken  for  gracious 
messages  and  letters  that  do  not  come,  and  yet 
be  loyal  in  the  belief  they  have  been  written, 
they  are  somewhere — this  is  the  sweet  patience 
born  of  woman,  the  brave,  persistent  faith,  almost 
a  religion. 

It  is  the  one  who  sails  away  who  forgets;  the 
one  who  stays  at  home  who  remembers.  He 
was  a  false  teacher  who  said  Paradise  is  in  the 
shadow  of  the  crossing  of  cimeters.  You  and  I 
know,  dear  reader,  and  our  little  Rose  of  Seville 
knew,  it  is  in  the  shadow  of  the  one  we  love. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

AMONG   THE   ARCHIVES. 
(Continued.) 

FROM  the  journal  of  Capitan-General  Don 
Domingo  Jeronso  Petriz  de  Cruzate  (what  a 
Spanish  ring  there  is  in  that  name!),  who  was 
governor  and  military  commandant  of  Nueva 
Mejico  from  1684  to  1689,  we  can  form  some 
idea  of  the  state  of  affairs  in  the  province.  But 
a  few  detached  pages  of  this  important  document 
survive.  They  appear  the  clearest  where  all  are 
confused 

The  Spaniards  had  been  driven  from  the  coun- 
try as  far  south  as  the  Texan  line.  Cruzate's 
little  army  failed  in  the  reconquest  of  the  liberty- 
loving  Pueblos,  and  the  service  was  finally  en- 
trusted to  General  Vargas,  or,  as  it  was  anciently 
written,  Bargas,  to  whom  the  faithful  knight  and 
true  love  was  secretary. 

The  chronology  of  this  period  is  some  times 
in  a  hopeless  tangle ;  but  the  march  of  Governor- 
General  Don  Diego  de  Vargas  is  pretty  well  con- 
nected. He  lives  in  history  as  one  of  the  most 
bigoted  and  brutal  of  the  Conquistadores.  As 
has  been  written  of  the  Duke  of  Alva:  "  His 
vices  were  colossal,  and  he  had  no  virtues." 
From  shreds  and  patches  of  mouldy  MSS.  his 
march  is  traced  with  tolerable  clearness,  and  the 
conduct  of  the  foreigners  was  so  nearly  alike 
that  their  stories  are  much  the  same. 

By  and  with  consent  of  the  royal  audience,  he 
left  home  and  pleasures  in  the  City  of  Mexico 
for  El  Paso  del  Norte,  to  organize  one  hundred 
friendly  Indians  and  less  than  two  hundred 
mounted  men.  Among  the  latter  was  the  secre- 
tary, Antonio  Eusebio  de  Cubero,  who  on  fiesta 

121 


122  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

days  wore  a  light  glove  on  his  casque,  a  love-knot 
on  his  spear. 

The  country  swarmed  with  a  numerous  and 
enraged  enemy,  and  every  league  of  ground  was 
contested.  Vargas  seemed  awake  to  the  perils 
of  the  situation,  and  to  have  a  wholesome  fear  of 
public  opinion  besides,  for  on  the  night  before 
marching  he  wrote  to  Count  Galvas,  Viceroy  of 
Mexico*  "I  have  determined  to  risk  life  and  all 
in  the  attempt,  and  am  prepared  rather  to  be 
considered  rash  to  being  looked  upon  as  a  man 
of  too  much  caution,  thereby  exposing  my  repu- 
tation to  remarks."  He  was  successful  from  the 
very  outset.  The  reader  will  remember  that  the 
Pueblos  lived  in  community  houses,  built  in  a 
hollow  square.  A  whole  tribe  sometimes  inhab- 
ited one  house,  and  one  after  another  they  were 
reduced  to  submission. 

The  invading  army  found  game  in  abundance; 
but  the  blessing  of  the  early  and  the  latter  rain 
is  not  for  New  Mexico,  and  the  scarcity  of  water 
made  great  suffering.  "  In  roasting-ear  time  " 
the  bold  land-robbers  feasted  in  the  cornfields ; 
"  hares  like  those  of  the  Castiles  "  furnished  nour- 
ishing food;  and  in  all  their  journeying  simple 
natives  gave  the  fair  visitants  their  choicest  stores, 
for  paltry  trinkets  of  glass  pewter,  and  tinsel. 
The  blaze  of  their  camp-fires  attracted  large  num- 
bers of  rattlesnakes — "  the  serpent  with  tiger-col- 
ored skin  and  castanets  in  its  tail;"  the  moun- 
tain cat's  green  eyes  glared  at  them  from  the 
black  rim  of  the  illuminated  circle;  and  lovely 
gazelles  shyly  approached  the  springs,  where  they 
had  hitherto  drank  undisturbed,  to  sniff  the  tainted 
air  and  gaze  at  the  strangers. 

There  survives  one  description  of  a  large  torpid 
lizard  the  explorers  encountered,  striped  with  red, 
white  and  black  bars — a  hideous  creature ;  and  a 
horned  snake,  kept  in  spirits,  to  be  sent  the 


Among  the  Archives. — Continued.  123 

viceroy.  Here,  too,  we  hear  first  of  the  won- 
derful traveling  stones,  that  within  the  distance  of 
a  few  feet  of  each  other  seek  a  common  centre, 
roll  together,  and  lie  close  like  eggs  in  a  nest. 
They  were  in  the  bottom  of  shallow  basins  in  the 
levels,  and  their  magnetism  was  a  source  of  won- 
dering awe  to  the  superstitious  soldiery.  The 
reporter,  a  naturalist  of  some  sort,  whose  name  is 
lost,  begs  a  moderate  subsidy,  that  he  may  em- 
ploy natives  to  help  capture  the  venomous  beasts 
and  assist  in  making  collections.  The  barbarians 
refused  to  work,  even  with  wages,  and  thus  writes 
Vargas  :  "  I  have  been  obliged  to  raze  whole 
villages  to  the  ground,  in  order  to  punish  their 
obstinacy."  Possibly  here  we  have  the  secret  of 
the  uninscribed  ruins  now  slowly  crumbling  down 
in  the  valleys  by  the  narrowing  waters  of  the 
Pecos  and  the  Rio  Grande. 

The  chief  burden  is  the  Indian.  The  chroni- 
cles are  heavily  laden  with  details  of  grievances 
the  conquerors  were  obliged  to  bear  from  him. 
How  he  refused  to  accept  slavery  as  his  best 
estate;  and,  worse  than  that,  how  he  rebelled 
against  the  power  which  would  force  him  to 
worship  the  unknown,  unseen  God.  whose  sign 
was  the  red  cross,  whose  ambassadors'  march  was 
tracked  by  the  smoke  of  cities  sacked  and  burnt, 
lands  made  desolate,  the  widow's  cry,  the  orphan's 
wail. 

The  Spaniards  were  disciples  of  the  school  of 
Narvaez,  who  on  his  death-bed,  being  urged  by 
his  confessor  to  forgive  his  enemies:  said  "Bless 
your  heart,  Father,  I  have  none.  I  have  killed 
them  all."  In  those  good  old  times — for  as  the 
poet  sings, 

"  All  times  when  old  are  good"— 

the  religion  of  the  governor  must  be  the  relig- 
ion of  the  governed.  The  Pueblos  were  and 
Still  are  sun  worshipers ;  and  every  day  their 


124  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

deity — the  peculiar  friend  of  the  red  race — rose 
with  unveiled  face,  rejoicing  the  eyes  and  cheer- 
ing the  hearts  of  his  children.  Why  should  they 
believe  in  One  whose  followers  taught  that  sul- 
phurous flames  were  in  waiting  for  all  who  had 
not  money  enough  to  pay  for  certain  mystic  rites 
held  over  the  dead  body  ?  Whenever  there  was 
chance  of  escape,  the  Indians  fled  before  the 
mailed  and  mounted  warriors  fast  as  their  own 
mountain  antelopes,  and  the  Pueblos  were  rapidly 
brought  to  submission.  To  perfect- the  surrender 
of  soul  and  body,  after  a  city  was  taken,  Father 
Francisco  Corvera  baptized  by  thousands  at  a 
time.  He  was  attended  by  several  Franciscan 
priests,  charged  with  the  reconversion  of  those 
fallen  from  the  true  faith.  They  were  forced  to 
assemble  before  a  large  cross  in  the  plaza.  There 
the  red  sinners  were  absolved  from  their  sins,  and, 
on  pain  of  death,  forbidden  their  idolatrous  dances, 
especially  the  cachina,  the  delight  of  the  aborigi- 
nal heart,  and,  as  the  old  MS.  words  it,  "were 
to  be  obedient  to  the  divine  and  human  majesty." 

Very  devout  was  this  Vargas.  After  the  re- 
duction of  Jemez,  he  reported  to  the  Viceroy  of 
Mexico,  Count  Galvas  :  "  This  action  having  been 
fought  the  day  before  Santiago  Day,  I  believe 
that  glorious  apostle  and  patron  saint  interceded 
in  our  behalf,  and  which  was  the  cause  of  our 
signal  success." 

Here  are  some  of  the  mild  requirements  laid 
on  the  baptized  heathen  by  his  order  : 

"They  must  keep  crosses  over  their  doors; 
treat  ministers  with  love  and  reverence ;  and, 
whenever  they  meet  them,  kiss  the  hem  of  their 
habit,  with  submission  and  veneration.  They 
must  have  their  bows  in  order  and  ten  arrows,  to 
offend  and  defend;  and  none  shall  dare  use  the 
arms  of  the  Spaniards,  for  the  reason  they  are 
prohibited  by  the  royal  ordinances," 


Among  the  Archives. — Continued.  125 

Fighting  his  way  northward,  near  Zuni.  he 
leveled  a  large  pueblo,  "  the  size  of  a  long  horse- 
race ;  "  but  how  long  the  horse-race  was  in  that 
time  your  correspondent  has  no  means  of  know- 
ing. By  his  own  autograph  on  the  everlasting 
hills  we  know  when  and  in  what  spirit  the 
haughty  hidalgo  passed  that  point  for  the  recap- 
ture of  La  Villa  Real  de  Santa  Fe,  then  in  the 
hands  of  its  rightful  owners. 

One  hundred  and  ninety  miles  southwest  of 
Santa  Fe,  ten  miles  from  the  Arizona  line,  fifty 
miles  west  of  the  dividing  ridge  of  the  continent 
— called,  in  consequence,  Sierra  Madre — is  an- 
tique Zuni,  a  city  of  memory.  It  is  one  of  the 
seven  vanishing  cities  sought  by  Coronado  in 
1 540,  and  by  wandering  knights  from  Spain  and 
Portugal  in  the  time  of  Philip  Second.  Capital 
of  the  fabled  kingdom  of  Cibola,  it  is  the  most 
ancient  and  most  interesting,  because  the  least 
changed,  of  all  the  pueblos  of  New  Mexico. 

When  Governor-General  Vargas  and  his  gallant 
little  army  reached  this  pueblo,  they  halted  for 
rest  and  recruiting,  before  pressing  on  to  the  City 
of  Holy  Faith.  The  General  was  accompanied 
by  his  secretary,  the  beloved  Antonio  Eusebio, 
and  they  must  have  looked  with  the  deepest  con- 
cern at  the  stout  walls  of  the  strange  fortress.  I 
have  not  been  able  to  learn  whether  he  attacked 
it  or  not.  Even  a  successful  and  intrepid  leader, 
with  the  help  of  the  red  allies,  used  to  savage 
warfare,  would  deliberate  well  before  besieging 
that  city  set  on  a  hill,  which  must  be  carried  by 
assault,  in  the  face  of  arrows  slings,  lances,  huge 
stones  rolled  from  above,  and  burning  balls  of 
cotton  dipped  in  oil.  The  modern  Zuni,  a  com- 
pact town  of  fifteen  hundred  souls,  stands  in  the 
centre  of  the  valley  of  the  Colorado  Chichito 
(Little  Red  River) ;  but  ancient  Zuni,  now  in 
ruins,  was  several  miles  away,  on  the  top  of  a 


126  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

mesa,  or  precipice,  one  thousand  feet  high,  almost 
inaccessible  from  the  valley.  It  was  built  in  five 
stones,  with  thick  walls  of  stone  laid  in  mud 
mortar,  terraced  from  without  and  fortified  by 
towers.  A  formidable  citadel. 

The  camp  of  the  victorious  army  was  probably 
in  the  present  camping-ground,  a  choice  spot, 
where  grass  grows  with  tint  of  richest  green, 
lovely  to  the  eye  as  fresh  lilies — a  garden  beauty, 
skirting  the  spring  of  cool,  sweet  water,  about 
fifteen  miles  from  old  Zuni.  To  reach  it  from 
Santa  Fe,  the  traveler  of  to-day  crosses  a  country 
very  beautiful  and  fertile,  where  rapid  change  of 
geological  structure  makes  varying  change  of 
scenery.  Maize  grows  in  the  valley  without  irri- 
gation— not  an  acequia  in  sight;  and  peaches, 
planted  by  the  Jesuit  Fathers,  are  deliciously 
sweet.  After  straining  over  sand  and  rock,  in  the 
hot,  white  sun-glare,  with  the  fever-thirst  which 
comes  from  drinking  alkali  water,  it  must  have 
been  a  deep  pleasure  for  the  soldiery  to  leave  the 
trackless  plain,  and  lie  in  the  cool,  rich  grass, 
restful  alike  to  jaded  steed  and  war-worn  rider ; 
to  feast  their  eyes  on  the  delicate  enamel  of  green 
— the  setting  of  this  Diamond  of  the  Desert ; 
and  watch,  as  we  have,  the  birds  of  strange  note 
and  plumage  coming  and  going,  with  merry 
twitter,  flirt  and  flutter,  to  bathe  and  drink  in  the 
sparkling  fountain. 

Enchanting  effects  of  light  and  color  vary  the 
passing  hours.  A  rose-blush  of  exquisite  haze 
greets  the  rising  sun ;  and  the  mirage — most 
marvelous  of  Nature's  mysteries — often  swims  in 
mid-air  in  early  morning,  when  the  first  warm 
flush  has  faded.  The  perfect  blue,  curtaining  the 
valley,  is  jeweled  with  opal  and  turquoise.  That 
ethereal  brilliance  allows  no  "  middle  tones." 
The  sun  sets  as  on  the  Nile,  and  when  the  flaring 
disc  sinks  low  suddenly  the  hidden  splendor  is 


Among  the  Archives. — Continued.  127 

unveiled — "a  vision  sent  from  afar,  that  mortals 
feebly  learn  how  beautiful  is  Heaven." 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

AMONG   THE   ARCHIVES. 

(Continued.) 

FROM  Zuni  dispatches  were  sent  back  to  Count 
Galvas  by  a  line  of  swift  runners  reaching  to 
Mexico.  Perhaps  a  letter  to  Seville  from  the 
faithful  knight,  who  now  had  time  for  sweet 
thoughts  of  love,  without  which  this  were  the 
wilderness  without  the  manna.  I  hope  the  reader 
does  not  forget  my  young  hero  ;  for  I  love  him 
dearly,  and  mean  to  stand  up  for  him  to  the  last, 
through  evil  as  well  as  through  good  report. 
Skillful  furbishers  did  what  they  could  to  restore 
the  original  luster  to  dulled  and  dinted  armor, 
and  in  the  idlesse  of  camp  the  secretary  must 
often  have  looked  up  at  two  enormous  pillars  of 
sandstone  towering  high  on  the  sides  of  the 
mesa,  appearing  chiseled  into  human  figures  of 
colossal  size,  fixed,  immortal  as  the  statues  of 
Aboo  Simbel.  At  evening,  while  my  Rosita 
walked  through  the  drowsy  Spanish  city, 


"  Guarded  by  the  old  duenna, 
Fierce  and  sharp  as  a  hyena, 
With  her  goggles  and  her  fan 
Waving  off  each  wicked  man, 


and  Antonia  Eusebio  was  smoothing  his  draggled 
plumes,  he  probably  heard  from  friendly  Indians 
the  wild  legend  still  told  there  by  the  red  light 
of  the  camp-fires.  The  tradition  runs  that  Zuni 


128  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

is  the  only  city  on  the  earth  which  bore  the 
weight  of  the  Flood.  Ages  ago,  an  eternity  be- 
fore white  men  came,  rain  fell  in  streams  from  the 
sky ;  adobe  houses  melted  away,  and  the  whole 
world  and  everything  in  it  was  fast  sinking  from 
sight.  The  neighboring  tribes  escaped  from  the 
rushing  waters  to  the  top  of  this  mesa;  but  the 
waves  rose  sc  fast  nearly  all  perished  before 
reaching  the  summit  of  the  cliff.  In  the  midst  of 
their  distress  a  black  night  (noche  triste)  fell  on 
the  land.  Their  God  had  forgotten  them,  the 
sun  turned  his  face  away  from  his  children,  and 
"  darkness  was  the  universe."  Still  the  waters 
rose  higher  and  higher,  incessant,  undiminished  ; 
still  the  people  in  blind  panic  pressed  to  the  top- 
most foothold,  threatened  with  the  fast-rising 
overflow.  Above  the  black  abyss  no  light  of  sun 
or  star,  sign  of  promise,  dove,  or  olive.  In  des- 
perate extremity,  they  sought  to  avert  the  curse 
by  sacrifice.  No  time  was  there  for  song  or 
prayer,  altar-fire  or  incantation.  They  snatched 
the  children  of  the  cacique  (a  daughter  lovely  as 
light,  a  smile  of  the  Great  Spirit,  and  a  son  beau- 
tiful as  morning),  adorned  them  with  a  few  gay 
feathers,  and  hurled  them  from  the  steep  into  the 
boiling  abyss — an  offering  to  an  offended  Deity. 
The  waters  were  surging  within  a  few  feet  of  the 
top  of  the  mesa.  There  the  proud  waves  were 
stayed.  The  victims  were  changed  to  the  stone 
columns,  a  sign  from  Heaven  marking  the  moun- 
tain of  refuge  where  the  propitiatory  offering  was 
accepted,  and  everlastingly  commemorating  the 
Deluge. 

The  mesa  is  a  mile  across  ;  an  irregular  figure, 
defined  by  abrupt  bluffs,  almost  perpendicular. 
On  it  are  the  remains  of  two  pueblos,  whose  out- 
lines are  clearly  traceable — the  dimensions  of 
rooms  and  inner  walls.  Like  all  ancient  towns, 
they  were  fortified  with  an  outer  wall  in  the  shape 


Among  the  Archives. —  Continued.  129 

of  the  letter  V,  to  resist  invasions  of  warlike  tribes, 
and  watch-towers  were  placed  at  regular  intervals. 
Crumbling  walls,  made  of  little  blocks  of  stone 
laid  in  mud-mortar,  are  scattered  over  the  ground 
in  heaps  from  two  to  ten  feet  high.  Here  the 
fox  and  coyote  prowl  by  night,  and  the  antiqua- 
rian haunts  it  by  day.  After  careful  investigation, 
with  Indian  guides,  they  report  the  standing  walls 
rest  on  ruins  of  still  greater  age.  The  primitive 
masonry  must  have  been  about  six  Teet  thick. 
In  the  more  recent  buildings  the  walls  are  not 
over  eighteen  inches  thick.  The  small  sandstone 
blocks  are  laid  with  neatness  and  regularity. 
Broken  pottery  is  strewn  about,  and  arrow-heads 
of  obsidian,  flint,  and  jasper. 

After  the  Deluge,  when  the  waters  abated  off 
the  face  of  the  earth,  the  tribes  abandoned  the  hill 
city,  and  lived  in  the  pleasant  valley  till  the  Span- 
ish invasion,  when  they  again  fled  to  the  top  of 
the  mesa.  They  turned  at  every  place  possible 
and  fortified  strongly  the  two  approaches  by 
which  the  outworks  could  be  assaulted,  and  held 
out  against  the  foe  a  long  time.  At  last  the 
bights  were  scaled.  The  mail-clad  warriors,  with 
their  swords  of  matchless  temper,  triumphed  over 
the  rude  arms  of  the  feeble  natives.  From  the 
highest  watch-tower  the  banner  of  the  Cross  was 
unfurled  against  the  brilliant  sky,  unflecked  by 
cloud  or  shadow  ;  and  sun-lighted  spears  glittered 
in  the  narrow  streets  of  the  devoted,  the  Holy 
City. 

Imprinted  in  the  solid  rock,  as  in  clay,  is  shown 
and  may  be  seen  this  day  the  foot-print  of  the 
first  white  man  who  reached  the  summit.  When 
you  visit  Zuni,  the  old  guide,  if  you  happen  to 
get  the  right  one,  will  repeat  this  story,  for  a 
slight  consideration. 

The  Zunis  are  the  Yankees  of  the  Pueblos — 
self-supporting,  keen  at  a  bargain,  thrifty,  orderly, 
9 


130  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

clean ;  that  is,  clean  for  Indians.  I  presume 
every  head  in  the  Holy  City  could  furnish  num- 
berless offerings  such  as  Diogenes  (oldest  of 
tramps)  cracked  on  the  pure  altar  of  me  chaste 
Diana. 

What  Cholula  was  to  the  Aztec,  Zuni  is  to  the 
Pueblos  ;  sacred  as  the  City  of  David  to  the  sons 
of  Israel.  Touching  the  religion  of  this  people 
opens  a  subject  so  broad  and  so  charming  I  am 
tempted  to  give  it  more  than  a  passing  glance, 
but  space  forbids.  They  are  pantheists  in  the 
fullest  sense  of  the  word,  and,  though  missions 
have  been  established  among  them  three  hundred 
years,  they,  like  all  aborigines,  set  their  face  as  a 
flint  against  change,  and  still  keep  to  the  ancient 
beliefs  and  customs.  They  worship  the  Supreme 
One,  whose  name  it  is  death  to  utter;  Mont- 
ezuma,  his  brother  and  equal;  and  the  Sun  to 
whom  they  pray  and  smoke,  because  his  eye  is 
always  open  and  his  ear  attends  the  prayers  of 
the  red  men.  The  Moon  is  the  Sun's  wife,  and 
eclipses  are  family  quarrels,  that  will  result  in  dis- 
aster to  the  world  if  they  are  not  soon  reconciled. 
The  stars  are  their  children ;  the  largest  is  the 
oldest. 

Besides  these  superior  deities,  there  is  the 
great  snake,  to  which  they  look  for  life,  by  com- 
mand of  Montczuma. 

Like  our  sea-serpent  on  the  Atlantic  Coast,  he 
glideth  at  his  own  sweet  will,  is  seen  at  unex- 
pected  places,  as  suits  his  pleasure,  is  longer  than 
the  tallest  pine,  and  "  thick  as  many  men  put 
together." 

It  has  been  well  said  the  barbarian  is  the  most 
religious  of  mortals.  His  dependence  on  the  ele- 
ments for  food  and  comfort  makes  the  primitive 
man  regard  Nature  witli  eager  interest.  Power- 
less against  her  forces,  if  there  be  something  mys- 
terious, threatening,  the  untutored  soul  supplicates 


Zuni  Basketry,  and  Toy  Cradles. 


Among  the  Archives. — Continued.  131 

it  in  prayer,  with  the  inborn  faith  down  deep  in 
every  breast  that  behind  the  visible  lies  close  the 
Invisible,  the  Creator,  who  rules  the  world  he 
made. 

They  adore  the  rainbow,  bright  headband  of 
the  sky,  rivers,  mountains,  stones,  trees,  bears, 
and  other  animals.  Their  fables  appear  mean- 
ingless to  us ;  but  we  must  not  despise  them,  for 
many  of  our  beliefs  are  equally  so  to  them.  The 
aboriginal  brain  can  never  comprehend  why 
white  men  worship  a  sheet  of  bunting — white,  red, 
spangled  blue,  with  the  eagle  totem — suffer  for  it, 
fight  for  it  in  armies  numberless  as  the  sands  of 
the  desert,  and  die  for  it  without  murmur. 

The  myths  of  the  furthest  West  are  wonderfully 
like  the  myths  of  the  furthest  East.  Studying 
them,  one  cannot  fail  in  the  conviction  that 
humanity,  in  all  the  ages  and  races,  is  the  same, 
formed  on  one  model,  unfolding  under  the  influ- 
ence of  the  same  inspiration  ;  that,  left  to  their 
own  will,  men  do  like  things  under  like  condi- 
tions, and  that  certain  religious  ideas  are  born  in 
every  heart,  sage  or  savage,  making  worship  a 
human  necessity.  Here,  as  in  ancient  Thessaly, 
the  powers  of  Heaven  have  haunts  in  the  echoing 
mountain-sides,  by  pebbly  springs,  in  the  gloomy 
shades  of  the  whispering  pines,  and  under  the 
rushing  river  and  cataract. 

In  New  Mexico,  where  the  food  supply  depends 
so  largely  on  the  winds  and  the  uncertain  rainfall, 
the  savage  is  most  anxious  to  conciliate  the  gods 
who  preside  over  these  forces.  There  are  altars 
for  their  worship,  mystic  stones  among  the 
gnarled  cedars  of  the  Zuni  mesa,  and  a  spring  of 
sweet  water,  sacred  to  the  rain  god,  rimmed  with 
pebbles  precious  as  the  oracular  jewels  on  the 
breast  of  the  Jewish  high  priest.  No  animal  is 
allowed  to  drink  of  the  holy  waters,  and  they  are 
purified  every  year,  with  vessels  dedicated  to  the 


1 32  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

service — most  ancient  jars,  handed  down  through 
the  generations  since  the  evening  and  the  morn- 
ing were  the  first  day.  No  Zuni  drinks  from  the 
consecrated  ollas,  for  the  spirit  of  the  spring  is 
always  watching,  and  will  avenge  the  indignity 
with  instant  death.  Once  a  year,  in  August,  the 
cacique,  with  his  chief  counselors,  visits  the  spring, 
and  washes  its  walls,  with  the  elaborately-tinted 
vases,  which  were  hallowed  by  the  first  high  priest. 
The  jars  are  ranged  in  order  on  the  rim  of  the  well. 
The  frog,  the  rattlesnake,  the  tortoise  are  painted 
on  them,  animals  sacred  to  the  presiding  deity. 
Woe  to  the  offender  who  shall  profane  them  by 
a  touch !  A  fate  awaits  him  like  that  of  Uzza, 
when  he  put  forth  his  hand  to  hold  the  ark  in  the 
threshing-floor  of  Chidon.  The  lightning  of  the 
dread  god  of  storms  will  strike  the  sinner  dead. 

Somewhere  near  is  a  mysterious  divine  bird, 
kept  in  a  secret  shrine.  As  Herodotus  says  of 
the  Phoenix :  "  I  have  never  seen  it  myself,  except 
in  a  picture." 

Like  the  old  Greek,  the  Pueblo  looks  up  and 
sees  the  dead  among  the  stars.  When  the 
Aurora  flashes  a  strange,  flickering  light  along 
the  northern  sky,  it  is  the  mustering  of  the  spirits 
of  the  mighty  warriors,  whirling  their  spears  and 
marching  with  proud  steps,  as  the  shade  of 
Agamemnon  strode  across  the  fields  of  Asphodel. 
The  earthquake's  rumble  is  the  groaning  and 
turning  in  sleep  of  a  big  old  giant,  with  voice  of 
thunder,  eyes  of  fire,  and  breath  of  flame.  He 
was  so  immense  that  he  sprawled  across  the 
whole  plain,  and  so  powerful  the  immortal  gods, 
finding  they  could  not  kill  him,  tore  up  a  high 
mountain  and  laid  it  on  him,  to  keep  him  quiet 
What  is  this  but  Enceladus  ? 

"  Under  Mount  Etna  he  lies. 

It  is  slumber,  it  is  not  death  ; 
For  he  struggles  at  times  to  arise, 

And  above  him  the  lurid  skies 
Are  hot  with  his  fiery  breath. 


Zuiii  Water  Vases. 


Among  the  Archives. — Continued.  133 

"The  crags  are  piled  on  Ins  breast, 

The  earth  is  heaped  on  his  head  ; 
But  the  groans  of  nis  wild  unrest, 

Though  smothered  and  half-suppressed, 
Are  heard,  and  he  is  not  dead." 

The  best  hope  and  strongest  faith  of  the 
Pueblos  are  in  the  second  coming  of  the  great 
King,  who  is  to  raise  the  dead,  judge  the  world, 
and  reign  in  peace  and  righteousness.  Strug- 
gling with  shadows  and  weird  imaginings,  work- 
ing out  their  destiny  with  many  a  bitter  failure, 
in  anguish  of  heart  they  instinctively  reach 
through  the  darkness  for  the  almighty  hand  of 
the  unseen  helper.  The  sons  of  Montezuma,  as 
they  love  to  call  themselves,  believe  the  fullness 
of  time  is  come,  and  the  return  of  their  Messiah 
at  hand.  He  will  leave  his  bright  sun-house,  to 
right  the  wrongs  and  heal  the  woes  of  the  race 
so  mercilessly  stricken  down  by  the  Spaniards. 
Then  there  will  be  no  more  death,  neither  sorrow, 
nor  crying ;  neither  shall  there  be  any  more  pain. 
Their  ideas  are  vague  and  dim.  Legends  trea- 
cherous as  memory,  and  growing  fainter  from 
generation  to  generation,  for  their  wise  men  are 
without  open  vision,  and  their  sagamores  have 
neither  written  prophecy  nor  guiding  stars. 

The  view  from  the  top  of  the  mesa  is  unspeaka- 
bly beautiful.  Twined  among  multitudes  of 
peaks,  like  tangled  ribbons,  are  streakings  of 
azure  and  purple,  beneath  which,  as  we  know  by 
experience,  are  out  spread  valleys,  broad,  treeless, 
scorched  with  a  tropic  heat,  which  at  noonday 
seems  like  quivering  flame.  The  pre-historic 
ruins  cover  about  thirty  acres,  and  are  scattered 
in  confusion  on  the  level  plateau  under  the  wind- 
whipped  cedars.  Here,  until  within  a  few  years, 
was  kept  the  consecrated  fire  burning  for  cen- 
turies— the  Montezuma  fire ;  but  time  fails  to 
tell  it  all.  Another  day  we  will  come  again,  and 
hear  the  fanciful  traditions,  the  misty  old  super- 
stitions which  hover  about  the  neglected  shrines. 


134  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

They  are  given  with  an  opulence  of  fancy  which 
throws  mists  before  your  eyes.  In  the  hush  of 
solitude,  the  effect  of  the  place  is  mysterious, 
and  reflection  drops  easily  into  belief.  Few 
worshipers  now  sacrifice  in  the  primeval  temples, 
where  of  old  they  must  have  flocked  by  hundreds, 
cherishing  the  promise  of  the  second  coming  of 
Montezuma  from  the  pleasant  land  where  the  sun 
rises.  The  chiefs  crouch  with  faces  toward  the 
east  as  the  morning  star  goes  softly  out,  and  the 
gray  dawn  melts  into  the  light  of  day,  yearning 
as  human  hearts  have  yearned  in  all  ages,  seeking 
a  sign  from  Heaven.  The  legend  runs  that  he 
who  shall  first  behold  the  King  in  his  beauty 
shall  receive  some  great  favor  at  his  hand.  Some- 
times they  wait  in  silence  ;  again  they  chant  a 
hymn  to  their  god,  watching  till  he  shakes  his 
"  plumes  of  fire  "  above  the  mountain-tops  and 
shoots  his  radiant  spears  across  the  roseate  sky. 
But  the  oracles  are  dumb.  Well  are  they  keep- 
ing  the  mighty  secret ! 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

AMONG   THE   ARCHIVES. 
(Continued.) 

A  FEW  miles  from  Zuni,  as  we  move  eastward, 
there  gradually  comes  to  view  a  bold,  high,  sand- 
stone rock,  a  quadrangular  wall,  white,  veined 
with  yellow,  named  Inscription  Rock.  It  is 
nearly  a  mile  in  length  and  more  than  two  hun- 
dred feet  in  hight.  Approaching  it,  tower  and 
turret,  architrave  and  pillar  rise  slowly  into  view. 
We  see  a  mighty  structure  Nature  has  wrought 
in  noble  architecture,  and  that  no  extravagant 
coloring  gave  it  the  old  Spanish  name  El  Moro 
— The  Castle.  The  surface  of  the  mountain- wall 


Among  the  Archives. — Crnfinued.  135 

on  the  north  and  south  faces  is  written  over  with 
names  otherwise  lost  to  history,  records  that  light 
the  dark  way  like  shining  torches.  Some  are 
deeply  and  beautifully  cut  into  the  plane  surface 
and  reach  back  more  than  three  hundred  years. 
The  older  inscriptions  are  Spanish,  carefully 
graven  upon  the  vertical  faces,  about  the  hight 
of  a  man's  head  from  the  ground.  Usually  a 
date,  a  brief  memorandum  of  the  purpose  and 
line  of  march  of  the  Castilian  soldiery,  the  names 
of  travellers  exploring  the  country,  or  Franciscan 
friars  going  into  the  wilderness  in  search  of  the 
lost  tribes  of  Israel. 

At  the  foot  of  the  towering  steep  is  a  gushing 
spring  of  sparkling  water,  and  fresh  grass,  such 
as  is  not  often  seen  except  in  narrow  valleys 
among  the  arid  plains  of  the  territories.  After 
rest,  food,  siesta,  the  traveler,  looking  up  to  the 
immense  table  of  stone  before  him,  naturally  adds 
his  own  name  to  the  constantly-increasing  list  on 
the  written  mountain,  which  has  now  grown  into 
a  confused  mass  of  hieroglyphs — Indian  signs, 
the  favorite  being  the  track  of  a  moccasin,  indi- 
cative of  marching ;  decayed  and  decaying  in- 
scriptions, and  names  of  old  adventurers.  Let 
us  loiter  awhile  and  read,  for  it  is  not  often  such 
a  register  is  laid  open  to  any  tourist. 

Close  to  the  left  corner,  almost  hidden  by 
brushwood,  is  the  oldest  date,  engraved  in  the 
rock  nearly  a  century  before  the  landing  of  the 
Pilgrim  Fathers — Don  Jose  de  Basconzales, 
1526.  This  is  the  sole  record  of  his  expedition, 
at  once  his  history  and  his  cenotaph.  He  went 
with  an  exploring  party  from  the  City  of  Mexico, 
and  never  returned  ;  nor  were  they  heard  of  after 
leaving  Zuni.  Whether  they  perished  in  secret 
defiles,  cut  off  by  the  skulking  Apache,  who 
dogged  every  step  of  the  invader,  or  gave  out 
through  fatigue  and  thirst  in  the  deep  canons  and 


136  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

sterile  vegas,  belongs  to  the  voiceless  past.  In 
some  unnamed  spot  he  sleeps  with  the  silent 
majority — a  mighty  company. 

In  the  moist  air  of  England  these  letters  would 
be  mossed  over  and  wholly  illegible ;  but  the  dry, 
dewless  air  of  New  Mexico  holds  decay  in  check, 
and  in  this  regard  almost  equals  the  atmosphere 
of  Egypt.  Among  recent  inscriptions  appear  the 
autographs  of  the  United  States  explorers — 
Whipple,  Simpson,  and  others;  and  still  nearer 
our  day  the  signs  manual  of  the  Smiths,  Joneses, 
Browns,  and  the  rest.  The  sixth  name  on  the 
list  is  the  one  whose  fortunes  we  are  trying  to 
trace  out  and  follow,  less  for  the  sake  of  his  king 
and  country  than  because  he  was  attended  by  the 
true  love  and  faithful  knight  of  the  little  Rose  of 
Castile. 

It  runs :  Here  passed  Don  Diego  de  Bargas, 
to  conquer  Santa  Fe  for  the  royal  crown,  New 
Mexico,  at  his  own  cost,  in  the  year  1692. 

Many  secrets  we  cannot  guess  are  hidden  in 
the  silence  there,  with  the  sands  of  ages  drifted 
above  them ;  but  it  is  plain  to  see  Vargas  was  in 
high  feather  when  he  made  his  proud  record  on 
the  wall  of  El  Moro.  Observe  the  pert  little 
crow,  "at  his  own  cost." 

Luckily,  there  is  still  extant  a  number  of  docu- 
ments bearing  on  his  administration  among  the 
state  papers  at  Santa  Fe,  or  we  might  think  the 
princely  fellow,  going  out  conquering  and  to  con- 
quer, scattered  commissions  and  victories  with  a 
free  hand. 

How  La  Villa  Real  de  Santa  Fe  was  lost  and 
won  is  an  old  tale  and  often  told,  and  details  of 
battles,  at  least  of  Indian  fighting,  are  not  inter- 
esting. Enough  that,  after  the  summer  camp  at 
or  near  Old  Zuni,  Vargas  with  his  army  pressed 
on  to  the  siege  of  the  Capital.  The  slayers  were 
a  few  hundreds  of  white  men,  with  red  allies ;  the 


Atnong  the  Archives.— Continued.  137 

slain  were  of  a  number  that  has  never  been 
reckoned. 

Father  Francisco  Corvera  administered  absolu- 
tion to  the  entire  command  before  battle,  and,  as 
the  foreign  army  was  preparing  for  a  general 
onslaught,  the  Pueblos  stole  out  in  the  night, 
leaving  the  city  in  possession  of  the  fair  race 
which  left  nothing  but  desolation  in  its  track. 

The  brutal  instincts  of  this  Vargas  (whom  I 
hate,  and  the  judicious  reader  must  hate  too) 
hardened  and  intensified  with  increasing  power 
and  advancing  years.  One  of  the  worst  of  his 
bad  race,  he  labored  unceasingly  for  the  conver- 
sion of  the  aborigines.  His  position  allowed 
immeasurable  sweep  for  cruelty  which  we  may 
be  sure  he  enjoyed  to  the  utmost,  and  the  cross 
became  the  object  of  bitter  hatred  to  the  heathen 
he  claimed  for  an  inheritance.  He  it  was  who 
wrote  to  the  viceroy  of  Mexico,  applying  for  more 
troops  to  carry  on  the  crusade:  "You  might  as 
well  try  to  convert  Jews  without  the  Inquisition 
as  Indians  without  soldiers." 

Notwithstanding  his  religious  zeal  and  boast 
recorded  on  Inscription  Rock  at  Zuni,  Vargas 
missed  the  high  place  at  which  he  aimed,  not,  like 
Columbus  and  Cortez,  because  he  deserved  too 
greatly,  but  because  the  regiment  in  garrison  and 
the  corporation  of  Santa  Fe,  in  1695,  presented 
charges  to  the  viceroy,  Count  Galvas,  against  him 
for  peculation.  He  was  accused  of  using  public 
money  for  private  purposes;  of  drawing  on  the 
public  treasury  for  purchase  of  corn,  mules,  etc. 
for  settlers,  and  of  selling  them  and  pocketing 
the  proceeds.  "Also  of  having  drawn  drafts 
and  received  moneys  for  expenses  never  incurred." 

He  was  removed  from  office  1697,  and  with 
him,  doubtless,  the  faithful  knight  and  true  love, 
Don  Antonio  Eusebio  de  Cubero,  who  we  will 
believe  had  the  soul  of  a  true  knight,  and  no  part 
or  lot  in  these  ignoble  transactions. 


138  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

Whatever  he  was,  Rosita  saw  him  with  eyes 
anointed;  from  the  beginning  a  hero  predestined 
to  triumph  on  every  field  he  might  enter.  I  do 
believe  that,  in  the  rough  campaigning  through 
the  land  of  sand  and  thorn,  he  kept  her  lovely 
face — the  Millais  face — in  his  heart  of  hearts. 
That  he  never  vowed  a  vow  nor  kissed  a  kiss  that 
was  not  hers,  and,  loyal  to  his  own  Rose  of  Cas- 
tile, as  he  was  to  his  king,  he  marched  in  the 
triumph  through  the  streets  of  Seville.  There 
ministrels  and  troubadours  hymned  high  praises 
(romances  they  were  called),  and  bright  lady-loves 
waved  silken  scarfs  to  the  conquistador  es,  home 
from  the  far  New  World.  They  were  men  in 
the  bloom  of  youth,  the  very  flower  of  the 
Peninsula,  and  Antonio  Eusebio  de  Cubero  was 
proudest  and  noblest  where  all  were  proud  and 
many  noble. 

From  the  arched  window,  set  in  quaint  fret- 
work and  arabesques,  Rosita  looked  out  and  the 
banner  over  her  was  love.  Perhaps  the  Millais 
face — that  eager,  anxious,  haunting  face — flushed 
a  little  at  sight  of  the  grand  parade  in  the  pomp 
and  circumstance  the  old  Spaniard  loved  so  well. 
The  soft,  dark  eyes  were  not  bewildered  by  the 
rich  confusion  of  color,  the  far-floating  flags,  the 
dazzle  of  steel  and  of  silver.  Swift  glances 
singled  out  one  beneath  the  wavy  folds  of  the 
royal  standard,  brave  as  he  was  beautiful,  whose 
prancing  steed,  flashing  arms,  crest,  and  plume 
were  familiar,  whose  sash  her  own  soft  hands 
embroidered. 

Let  us  picture  reunion  after  years  of  separation, 
joy  after  anguish,  the  rapture  of  rescue  from 
peril,  and  so  leave  them,  walking  with  happy 
feet  by  the  bed  of  sweet  basil,  as  the  first  lovers 
walked  in  the  cool  of  the  day  under  the  palms 
of  Paradise. 

While   I   write,  the   letter  of  the   dear,  dead 


Among  the  Archives. — Continued.  139 

woman  lies  on  the  table  before  me ;  the  fading 
sign  from  a  rose-leaf  hand  that  has  been  part  of 
the  dust  of  old  Spain  so  many  and  many  a  year. 
Frail  thing,  most  perishable,  outlasting  kings, 
thrones,  the  wrecks  of  states,  the  decay  of  ages! 
Closing  day  finds  me  dreaming  over  it  in  the 
waning  light.  I  look  to  the  purpling  hills.  As 
the  sun  sinks,  they  change  to  fairy  tents,  under 
a  line  of  exquisite  color,  pink,  orange,  pale  sea 
green,  the  changeful  fringe  on  the  banner  of 
night,  ending  far  up  the  zenith  in  a  field  of  spot- 
less azure.  In  the  farness  of  the  distance  the 
cold,  white  peaks  of  the  Stony  mountains  warm 
for  one  supreme  moment  in  the  solemn  beauty 
of  the  after-glow,  their  summits  clear-cut  against 
the  rainless  blue. 

Rapidly  the  shadows  deepen.  Violet  changes 
to  leaden  hues,  rose  dims  to  pearl,  gray,  the 
flushed  white  foreheads  pale,  the  fires  of  sunset 
burn  out,  and  the  short  twilight,  ending  in  gloom, 
is  the  day's  burial. 

Human  phantoms  flit  across  the  dusky  spaces. 
King  and  priest,  savage  and  Christian,  knight 
and  lady,  shadows  all,  passing  within  the  mighty 
shadow.  Under  the  low  window  I  hear  the 
tramp  of  feet  pacing  to  and  fro  like  the  ebb  and 
flow  of  the  tide.  The  hurrying  feet  are  ghost- 
like, too,  chasing  the  flying  specters'  gold  and 
fame.  History  is  but  repeating  itself.  The  rest- 
less, dissatisfied  souls  of  the  New  World  are  the 
same  brotherhood  as  those  of  the  Castiles ;  the 
same  as  when  Solomon  sent  ships  from  Tarshish 
to  bring  back  gold  of  Ophir  ;  the  same  jealous 
souls  as  when  the  king  was  wroth  because  the 
people  shouted,  Saul  has  slain  his  thousands  and 
David  his  ten  thousands.  Now,  as  then,  morn- 
ing and  evening  bring  their  old  beauty,  the  cool 
ing  balm  of  the  breeze  follows  the  burning  day. 
The  west  wind  cools  no  fever  of  heart  or  brain ; 


140  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

still  are  men  searching  for  signs  of  gold  and 
righting  the  old  battle  against  oblivion,  and  still 
do  loving  women  sit  by  solitary  fires  and  wait  for 
them  to  come.  These  things  have  not  changed  ; 
they  will  never  change.  Humanity  remains  the 
same. 

The  foreign  charm  which  was  the  dower  of  the 
historic  city  is  dying  fast,  but  not  quite  dead. 
The  spell,  long  lingering,  is  slow  to  pass  away, 
though  student  and  antiquary  are  blowing  the 
dust  from  the  books  of  Chronicles  and  letting 
the  white  light  of  day  into  obscured  and  dark- 
ened chambers. 

In  this  dimness  once  glowed  the  poetic  coloring 
of  romance  and  chivalry,  in  which  the  valorous 
Espego  and  his  knights  founded  the  City  of  Holy 
Faith.  If  the  ghosts  of  the  venturesome  heroes 
revisit  the  field  of  their  victories,  they  may  yet 
be  reminded  of  soft  Andalusia.  There  is  a  hint 
of  Castilian  grace  in  the  vanishing  sombrero,  in 
the  folds  of  the  ever-falling  but  never-fallen  rebosa> 
a  touch  of  passing  sweetness  in  the  prolonged 
adios.  Blent  with  the  familiar  benediction,  now 
in  my  ear,  "  Vago  listed  con  Dios  que  listed  lo pase 
Men"  ('<  May  you  depart  with  God  and  continue 
well "),  the  hovering  shades  might  hear  the 
dreamy  plash  of  bright  fountains  and  the  light 
love  song  under  the  barred  windows  of  fair 
Cordova. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

THE   JORNADA    DEL   MUERTO. 

NEAR  the  southern  boundary  of  New  Mexico 
the  Spanish  explorers  were  opposed  by  a  barrier 
of  all  on  earth  most  to  be  dreaded — a  shadeless, 
waterless  plateau,  nearly  one  hundred  miles  long, 


The   Jornada  Del  Muerto.  141 

from  five  to  thirty  miles  wide,  resembling  the 
steppes  of  Northern  Asia.  Geologists  tell  us  this 
is  the  oldest  country  on  the  earth,  except,  per- 
haps, the  backbone  of  Central  Africa;  at  least 
the  one  which  has  longest  exhibited  its  present 
conditions,  the  one  longest  exposed  to  the  influ- 
ence of  agents  now  in  action,  and,  hence,  bearing 
the  most  deeply-marked  records  of  their  power. 

The  portion  I  speak  of  appears  to  have  served 
its  time,  worn  out,  been  dispeopled  and  forgotten. 
The  grass  is  low  and  mossy,  with  a  perishing 
look — the  shrubs,  soap-weed,  and  bony  cactus 
writhing  like  some  grisly  skeleton;  the  very 
stones  are  like  the  scoria  of  a  furnace.  You 
vainly  look  for  the  flight  of  a  bird,  such  as 
cheered  ihe  eyes  of  Thalaba  in  the  desert;  no 
bee  nor  fly  hums  the  empty  air;  and,  save  the 
lizard  (the  genius  of  desolation)  and  horned  frog, 
there  is  no  breath  of  living  thing. 

Certain  tribes  of  Arabia  have  no  name  for  the 
sea,  and,  when  they  first  came  to  its  shore,  they 
asked,  with  a  sad  wonder :  "  What  is  this  strange 
desert  of  water,  more  beautiful  than  any  land?" 
Standing  on  the  edge  of  the  measureless  waste, 
which  is  trackless  as  water,  the  first  explorers 
might  ask :  "  What  is  this  strange  ocean  of  sand, 
with  its  stillness  more  awful  than  any  sea  ?  " 

In  places  the  dead  level  of  the  plain  sweeps 
with  the  exactness  of  a  sheet  of  water,  encircling 
as  with  a  shore-line  mountain-walls  which  on  the 
west  shut  off  the  Rio  Grande,  and  frequently 
insulating  whole  peaks  and  ridges.  Friendly 
showers  fall  there  two  months  in  the  year,  and, 
instead  of  storms  of  rain,  in  spring  it  is  burned 
by  those  of  dust  and  sand  They  are  caused  by 
winds  coming  mainly  from  the  northwest,  carry- 
ing before  them,  like  mist,  clouds  of  pulverized 
sand  and  dust,  and  piling  them  in  drifts  when 
checked  in  their  course.  You  can  watch  their 


142  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

progress  as  they  approach,  beginning  in  a  thin 
haze  along  the  horizon,  for  hours  beforehand ; 
and  when  they  reach  you  the  dust  penetrates 
everything.  You  eat  it,  you  drink  it,  you  breathe 
it,  you  wear  it  like  a  coating,  and  the  last  hand- 
kerchief at  the  bottom  of  the  box  in  your  trunk 
is  gritty  and  smells  of  alkali.  The  sand-storms, 
as  they  are  called,  usually  last  one,  sometimes 
three  days.  Occasionally  they  appear  a  proces- 
sion of  whirlwind  columns,  such  as  are  seen  in 
autumn  leaves,  slowly  moving  across  the  desert 
in  spectral  dimness.  Rejoice  and  be  thankful  if 
the  tempest  passes  without  striking.  It  will  beat 
the  mules  without  mercy  and  lash  your  face  like 
a  whip,  if  it  reaches  you. 

Stories  are  told  how,  after  a  day  of  intense  heat 
and  lifeless  silence,  a  dark  cloud  rapidly  lowers 
from  the  sky  of  molten  brass,  and  a  sudden  wind 
whirls  the  sand  in  mounds,  and  so  shifts  it  from 
place  to  place.  Horses  and  mules  fall  flat,  with 
their  noses  to  the  ground;  men  lie  down  under 
blankets,  from  which  the  sand  must  be  shaken 
occasionally,  to  escape  being  literally  buried 
alive.  Storms  of  such  violence  are  rare,  but  every 
old  frontiersman  can  tell  you  of  more  than  one. 
The  early  Spaniards  called  the  desert  hot  wind 
solana,  in  memory  of  Mancha  and  Andalusia.  It 
heats  the  blood  terribly,  produces  the  utmost  dis- 
comfort and  nervous  irritation.  Hence  the  Cas- 
tilian  proverb:  "Ask  no  favor  while  the  solana 
blows." 

A  variation  of  the  simoom  of  the  Orient,  it 
cracks  the  skin,  creates  consuming  thirst,  and  has 
been  known  to  produce  death. 

The  reader  need  hardly  be  reminded  that  the 
destruction  of  Sennacherib's  host  is  supposed  to 
have  been  caused  by  the  simoom.  Undoubtedly, 
Byron  had  it  in  mind  when  he  wrote  the  Hebrew 
melody,  which  has  the  majestic  thunder-roll  of 
organ  music, 


The   Jornada  Del  Muerto.  143 

"  The  Assyrian  came  down  like  the  wolf  on  the  fold." 

Once  feel  the  parching,  torrid  heat;  once  face 
that  suffocating  desert-wind,  and  you  readily 
comprehend  death  was  instantaneous.  There 
was  no  waste  of  miraculous  force  in  the  power 
which  destroyed  all  the  mighty  men  of  valor,  and 
the  leaders  and  captains,  in  the  camp  of  the  king 
of  Assyria 

"For  the  Angel  of  Death  spread  his  wings  on  the  blast, 
And  breathed  in  the  face  of  the  foe  as  he  passed ; 
And  the  eyes  of  the  sleepers  waxed  deadly  and  chill, 
And  their  hearts  but  once  heaved  and  forever  grew  still.'1 

The  spot  I  am  trying  to  describe  is  the  battle- 
ground of  the  elements.  In  winter  it  is  made 
fearful  by  raging  storms  of  wind  and  snow. 
There  men  and  animals  have  been  frozen  to 
death,  their  bodies  left  the  lawful  prey  of  the 
mountain  wolf.  From  the  primeval  years  the 
Apache  has  harried  the  hungry  waste,  hunting 
for  scalps;  and,  besides  the  savagest  of  savages, 
it  is  now  the  favorite  skulking-place  of  outlaws, 
an  asylum  for  fugitives  escaping  justice  in  old 
Mexico  and  Texas. 

In  our  times  many  a  party  cut  off  and  many  a 
traveler  murdered  makes  good  the  name  it  bears, 
given  by  the  first  white  men  who  dared  its  perils: 
Jornada  del  Muerto — "Journey  of  Death." 

Reports  of  sun-scorch  and  lava  beds,  sand, 
sirocco,  maddening  thirst,  and  cheating  mirage 
did  not  daunt  the  bold  land-robbers  from  Spain. 
They  were  pledged  to  wrest  their  secrets  from 
the  mountains,  and  bring  them  to  lay  at  the  feet 
of  their  imperial  master.  Disciplined  in  the 
hardships  of  foreign  wars,  they  lived  for  glory 
and  worshiped  Fortune.  They  had  seen  service 
in  almost  every  clime.  Some  had  tilted  with  the 
Moor ;  some  had  fought  the  infidel  on  the  blue 
Danube,  and  hunted  the  Carib  in  Hispaniola; 
and  later  came  captains  whose  waving  plumes 
had  been  the  colors  to  rally  on  when  the  roya} 


144  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

standards  were  fallen.  The  mysterious  country, 
mountain-locked  and  guarded  by  savage  sentinels, 
who  seemed  to  require  neither  rest,  food,  nor 
sleep,  and  were  so  fleet  of  foot  they  could  out- 
march the  best  cavalry  horses,  was  a  high  stake, 
involving  heavy  risks  and  not  to  be  lightly  won. 
From  accounts  of  Jesuit  missionaries,  who  went 
with  the  cross,  ready  to  die  for  their  faith,  the 
heroes  of  the  seventeenth  century  learned  that 
Nature  in  Nueva  Espagna  was  not  always  in 
stormy  mood.  The  fiery  solana  spent  its  strength 
in  three  days,  and  the  lull  following  it  was  like 
clear  shining  after  rain.  If  the  snow  of  winter 
was  deep,  it  was  not  lasting  (only  a  Christmas 
storm) ;  and  friendly  natives  taught  them  that  the 
stony  Sierras  could  be  brought  to  yield  gold, 
silver,  copper — all  the  precious  metals. 

Along  their  sides  were  sparkling  springs,  and 
at  their  feet  green  valleys,  where  Summer  nestled 
long  and  lovingly — pasturas  in  which  an  abiding 
June  encamped  and  ruled  the  year.  They  were 
tufted  with  the  short,  delicate  buffalo  grass,  lovely 
with  its  strange  clusters  of  pistillate  flowers  and 
bunches  of  rosy  stamens,  and  so  strongly  and 
closely  matted  it  could  well  bear  the  tread  of  the 
monstrous  Cibola  (buffalo).  Over  all,  like  the 
purple  mountain  veils,  threaded  with  fire,  hung 
a  delicious  mystery. 

The  old-time  heroes  were  deeply  superstitious 
and  well  versed  in  legendary  lore.  As  they 
penetrated  the  Jornada,  spectral  illusions  haunted 
them.  Demons  lurked  in  the  tall  soap-weed, 
and  glared  over  their  tops,  grimacing  threaten- 
ingly. 

When,  weakened  by  long  fastings,  the  sky 
spun  round,  goblins,  "  with  leathery  wings  like 
bats,"  filled  the  air,  and  foul  fiends,  which  could 
be  exorcised  only  by  prayer,  made  every  step  a 
terror.  Fearless  leaders,  who  regarded  enterprise 


The  Jornada  Del  Mucrto.  145 

honorable  in  proportion  to  its  peril,  and  had 
looked  death  in  the  face  as  if  they  loved  it, 
quailed  before  the  undiscovered  country,  the 
pathless  Jornada. 

In  bivouac  at  sunset,  there  was  much  crossing 
of  forehead  and  breast,  murmur  of  aves  and 
amens  ;  not  whispered,  but  outspoken,  as  became 
the  "  Swords  of  the  Church." 

They  set  up  their  swords  in  the  sand,  knelt 
before  the  blessed  sign  on  their  hilts,  and  fervently 
prayed  the  Holy  Mother's  protection.  So  com- 
forted, they  slept,  perchance  to  dream  of  cool 
fountains  in  far  plazas  ;  of  glassy  ponds,  with 
white-breasted  swans  asleep  among  the  reeds  and 
rushes  on  the  margin  ;  of  rushing  books,  shaded 
by  dripping  willows  ;  and  the  low  undertone  of 
of  the  halcyon  sea,  whose  soft-beating  surf  breaks 
on  the  shores  of  old  Spain. 

It  is  amusing  to  read  of  their  superstitious 
dread  of  horned  frogs,  which  hopped  out  of  the 
way,  then  "  turned  and  faced  them  with  basilisk 
eyes."  The  sameness  of  the  scenes  was  sicken- 
ing ;  the  glare  of  the  fierce  sunshine  blinded 
them  ;  and,  with  cracked  lips  and  burning  eyes 
they  hailed  the  mirage  with  shouts,  and,  horse 
and  rider  seeing  eye  to  eye,  they  dashed  away 
for  the  mocking  lake,  to  curse  the  cheat  and 
thirst  the  more. 

Traversing  the  desert  is  not  now  what  it  was 
in  the  age  of  fable.  The  delusions  of  the  past 
vanished  with  the  darkness  to  which  they 
belonged.  We  are  living  in  better  times.  Sum- 
mer, winter,  moonbeam  or  starbeam  will  never 
shine  on  goblins  more.  The  "  leathery  wings  " 
have  floated  away  from  cactus  thicket  and  mez- 
quit  jungle ;  ghost,  fairy,  demon,  genii  all  have 
fled  into  the  listening  silence.  They  were 
phantoms  following  the  century  of  credulity, 
whose  foremost  man,  clear-eyed  and  conscien- 


146  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

tious,  aimed  his  inkstand  at  the  Devil,  and  whose 
veteran  campaigner  from  the  siege  of  Granada 
went  wandering  up  and  down  the  everglades  of 
Florida,  seeking  an  enchanted  fountain — an  ever- 
flowing  spring,  of  which  one  draught  would 
restore  to  his  war-worn  body  the  freshness  of 
youth,  and  add  to  his  term  of  life  years  enough 
to  discover  and  conquer  a  third  world. 

The  Jornada  still  has  its  alarms ;  but  men  of 
the  nineteenth  century  see  no  angry  eyes  in  the 
red  glow  of  sunset;  overhead  hovers  no  evil 
spirit  of  earth  or  air,  under  cover  of  night's  blue 
and  starry  banner. 

The  centre  of  the  ninety- mile  desert  is  now 
broken  by  a  watering-place,  the  cheering  oasis 
which  relieves  the  long  strain  on  body  and  soul. 
In  1871  Major  John  Martin  dug  one  hundred  and 
sixty  feet,  and  struck  a  sweet,  abundant  fountain, 
deliciously  cool,  soft,  with  a  slight  taste  of 
sulphur.  Its  depth  is  forty  feet,  and  the  heaviest 
draughts  have  never  lessened  the  supply.  It  is 
pumped  by  a  windmill,  which  the  wind  some- 
times makes  his  own ;  and  the  gurgle  and  plash 
as  the  stream  falls  into  the  huge  tanks,  is  a  sound 
in  the  ear  of  the  traveller  sweet  as  his  first  hearing 
of  the  nightingale.  Before  the  well  was  made 
water  was  hauled  in  barrels  to  the  station  from 
the  Rio  Grande,  fifteen  miles  away.  The  nearest 
fuel  at  that  point  is  eighteen  miles  distant. 

At  Fort  Craig,  the  southern  terminus  of  the 
solitary  place,  the  modern  tourist  fills  his  water- 
kegs  and  canteens,  tightens  his  cartridge-belt, 
and  looks  carefully  to  the  condition  of  his  animals. 
The  loss  of  a  breast-strap  or  horse-shoe  would 
be  a  hindrance  not  easily  overcome,  and  supplies 
of  every  kind  must  be  carried.  The  road  is 
excellent,  and,  if  there  is  no  accident,  the  well 
may  be  reached  in  one  day's  journey.  Even  in 
its  best  aspect  it  is.  entered  the  first  time  with 


The   Jornada  Del  Muerto.  147 

forebodings,  a  vague  dread,  like  pushing  out  into 
an  unknown  sea.  The  sun-glare  is  so  hard  to 
bear  that  night  is  often  the  accepted  time  for  the 
mournful  crossing.  As  the  sun  declines,  the 
lonesome  dark  falls  like  a  drop-curtain.  The 
stars  flash  out. ;  the  sky  above,  intensely  clear,  is 
a  steel-blue  shield,  set  thick  with  diamonds.  A 
tropic  brilliance  fills  it  with  a  glow  like  the  mild 
twilight  of  other  latitudes,  and  the  moon's  splendor 
makes  beautiful  even  the  seared  and  jagged  cliffs 
of  the  Sierra  de  los  Organos.  Three  thousand 
feet  above  the  level  of  the  river  are  their  shafts, 
pale  gray  in  the  silvery  light ;  masses  of  granite 
up-heaved  in  some  mighty  convulsion,  long 
stilled,  standing  against  the  rainless  blue  like 
tombstones  over  a  buried  world. 

If  there  is  talk  in  the  ambulance,  it  is  in 
subdued  tones.  The  assumption  of  cheerfulness 
by  humming  snatches  of  old  songs  is  a  dreary 
impertinence.  Hour  after  hour  we  travel  in 
silence,  unbroken  but  by  the  grind  of  wheels 
plowing  through  the  sandy  soil.  In  answer  to 
your  utmost  listening,  you  may  catch  the  yelp 
of  the  red  fox,  or  from  the  far-off  mountain  the 
coyote's  shrill  cry.  Sometimes  the  driver  drops 
to  sleep,  and  the  wagon  stops.  Lift  the  canvas 
curtain,  and  look  out.  The  soft  wind  blows  in 
even  cadence  and  swell,  but  meets  only  the 
hushed  night  and  its  burning  lights.  The  Milky 
Way  is  a  solid  white  gleam,  where  the  invisble 
gods  are  walking.  The  missing  stars  are  here. 
How  low  they  swing  in  their  serene  and  silent 
spaces.  Beneath  the  solemn  grandeur  of  the 
heavens,  the  work  of  Him  in  whom  is  no  haste, 
no  rest,  no  weariness,  no  failure,  we  bow  in  awe. 
What  a  little  speck  is  our  wagon-train  ;  what  an 
atom  is  self,  the  object  round  which  our  weak 
thoughts  revolve. 

The     mountain-rim    is    restful   to   the   sight. 


148  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

There  are  the  gushing  springs,  cool  as  snow ; 
and  the  shady  pines,  whose  never  ceasing  song 
we  cannot  hear.  How  still  it  is !  No  ripple  of 
water,  no  stir  of  leaf  or  bough,  grass  or  blossom, 
or  any  green  thing.  Ominous  crosses  by  the 
wayside  mark  the  graves  of  travellers,  scalped, 
tortured,  and  mangled.  The  weight  of  the 
tragedy  is  on  us.  We  feel  a  near  kinship  to  the 
sleepers  below,  and  would  not  tremble  to  see 
them  rise  and  shake  their  gory  locks  at  us.  The 
vacant  space  lies  stark  and  unmoved,  as  it  lay 
centuries  ago,  when  the  first  gold-hunters,  in 
fear  and  yet  in  triumph,  braved  its  unknown 
depths.  The  prostrate  plain,  the  rigid  outlines 
of  the  naked  landscape,  the  intolerable  dumb 
lifelessness  are  indeed  del  Muerto. 

And  here  I  pause  to  describe  the  weapons  used 
by  wild  tribes  of  Indians  who  infest  the  Jornada. 
On  my  wall,  beside  a  victorious  banner  furled 
and  bruised  arms  hung  up  for  monuments,  are 
the  full  equipments  of  an  Apache  chief,  killed 
near  Fort  Stanton,  New  Mexico.  The  shield, 
made  of  thick,  tanned  buffalo  hide,  is  stiff  and 
hard,  and  resounds  under  your  knuckles  like  a 
drum.  In  being  made  it  was  stretched  over  a 
light  frame  of  basket-work  and  dried.  It  is 
twenty  inches  across,  and  as  round  as  the  shield 
of  the  elder  Ossian. 

An  outer  cover  of  dressed  deer-skin  envelops  the 
buffalo  hide,  drawn  smooth  and  gathered  round 
the  edge  on  the  under  side  with  a  leather  thread. 
Traced  in  blue-black  ink  on  it  are  round  figures, 
which  may  represent  the  sun  or  a  spring,  and 
zigzags,  which  by  straining  one's  fancy  may  be 
imagined  to  represent  mountains. 

At  the  upper  rim  of  the  shield  are  the  decora- 
tions; three  pea-fowl  feathers,  probably  amulets, 
and  a  medicine-bag  of  black  muslin  containing  a 
dry  powder  which  the  warrior  rubs  on  his  heart 


The  Jornada  Del  Muerto.  149 

beiore  going  into  battle,  ''  to  make  it  big  and 
brave." 

A  scrap  of  iridescent  shell  is  fastened  to  the 
centre,  and  there  on  occasion,  and  around  the 
edge,  dangle  bloody  tufts,  the  reeking  scalps  of 
the  enemy.  It  was  carried  on  the  left  arm  by 
two  straps  slipped  over  the  hand,  and  was  kept 
in  motion  while  in  action,  by  which  means  the 
hostile  arrows  glanced  off. 

But  it  was  not  proof  against  the  mightier  arms 
of  the  white  race,  and  two  bullet-holes  through 
the  shield  show  how  the  red  chief  came  to  his 
death. 

The  spear  is  an  ugly  weapon  six  feet  long, 
about  as  thick  as  a  broom-handle,  and  made  of 
an  extremely  light  wood,  to  me  unknown,  painted 
red  in  one  band  three  inches  wide  near  the  head. 
The  point  is  a  piece  of  iron,  probably  an  old 
Mexican  bayonet,  twenty-two  inches  long, 
socketed  into  the  pole,  and  further  strengthened 
in  its  place  by  a  cord  of  deer-skin  wrapped  tightly 
round  it  many  times. 

Before  Indians  knew  the  use  of  iron,  the  spear, 
or  lance,  as  it  is  usually  called,  was  pointed  with 
obsidian,  or  some  other  flinty  substance,  ham- 
mered and  ground  to  a  sharp  edge.  Sometimes 
the  heel  of  the  shaft  is  balanced  with  eagle 
feathers,  while  others  are  caught  along  the  shaft, 
giving  steadiness  to  the  flight  and  gratifying  the 
taste  of  the  owner. 

The  quiver  is  twenty -seven  inches  long,  is 
made  of  white  cow-skin  tanned  with  the  hair  on, 
sewed  with  a  thread  of  deer-skin,  and  is  large 
enough  to  contain  a  sheaf  of  two  dozen  arrows. 
A  fringe  of  the  same  material  dangles  at  each 
end  of  the  quiver  and  adorns  the  waist-belt. 
When  it  was  in  use  a  band  of  cow-skin,  four 
inches  wide,  held  it  across  the  shoulder. 

The  arrows  are  shafts  two  feet  long,  made  of 


150  7#<?  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

a  species  of  yucca,  tipped  with  hoop-iron  and 
old  knife-blades,  which  are  roughly  ground  on 
each  side,  sharply  pointed  and  edged,  probably 
by  rubbing  with  stone.  They  are  winged  with 
three  feathers  of  the  wild  turkey,  stripped  from 
the  quill  and  tied  round  the  shaft  at  equal  dis- 
tances with  very  fine  tendons,  like  the  E  violin 
string.  The  iron  points  are  all  that  betray  in- 
tercourse with  white  men,  and  were  probably 
stolen  from  the  refuse  of  some  camp. 

An  Apache  boy,  of  ten  or  twelve  years  of 
age,  will  strike  a  cent  three  times  out  of  five  at 
a  distance  of  fifteen  yards.  Practice  of  bow- 
shooting  begins  as  soon  as  these  boys  are  old 
enough  to  hold  the  weapon,  and  ends  only  with 
death. 

At  fifty  yards  the  well-ponted  iron  arrow  is 
dangerous  and  sure,  and  the  strong-armed  In- 
dian easily  drives  it  through  a  two-inch  plank. 
He  can  fire  it  more  rapidly  than  an  ordinary 
revolver,  and  even  though  he  possesses  "a  heap 
firing-gun,"  as  he  calls  a  repeating  rifle,  he  is 
never  without  the  silent,  unerring  and  deadly 
iron-headed  arrow. 

It  is  far  superior  to  the  gun  for  night-sur- 
prises and  taking  off  sentinels,  and  on  the  hunt 
half-a-dozen  animals  may  be  killed  before  the 
rest  of  the  herd  are  alarmed.  It  is  to  be  re- 
lied on  when  ammunition  fails,  and  so  light  as 
to  be  worn  without  the  least  encumbrance. 

The  wary  Indian  is  careful  of  his  arrows,  al- 
though he  has  many,  wasting  none  in  random 
shots,  and  keeping  his  quiver  well  filled. 
Sometimes  a  thousand  arrows  are  buried  in 
the  grave  of  a  chief,  a  sign  that  his  death  will 
be  avenged  by  his  tribe. 

A  narrow  band  of  red  on  the  feathered  end 
of  the  shaft  is  the  only  attempt  at  ornamen- 
tation. 


The  Jornada  Del  Muerto.  151 

A  fringed  leather  arm-guard,  or  bracelet,  is 
worn  round  the  left  wrist,  to  defend  it  from  the 
blow  of  the  bow-string.  Sometimes  it  is  made 
of  gray  eagle  feathers  and  the  vari-colored  tips 
of  humming-birds'  wings. 

In  shooting- matches  the  contest  is  carried 
on  by  men  and  boys ;  betting  is  high  and 
exciting,  and  sometimes  entire  fortunes  such 
as  a  pair  of  moccasins,  a  pink  calico  shirt  and 
blanket,  are  staked  upon  the  hazard.  The 
whole  tribe,  men,  women  and  children,  turn 
out  as  spectators.  A  bad  shot  is  received 
with  yells  of  derision,  though  failures  by  ex- 
perts are  rare.  If  the  slender  white  wand 
aimed  at  is  not  touched,  the  shaft  generally 
lodges  in  the  circle  of  loose  earth  thrown  up 
about  the  target  to  catch  the  arrows  and  pre- 
vent their  blunting. 

Said  an  old  frontiersman  to  me,  "I  have 
never  yet  seen  the  Indian  bow  I  could  not 
break  across  my  knee."  I  doubt  if  he  could 
crack  the  one  now  before  me.  Many  a  hand 
has  tried  to  string  it  and  failed,  completely  as 
the  suitors  in  the  classic  story.  It  is  of  Osage 
orange  forty-two  inches  long,  bent  in  the 
graceful  curvature  poetry  assigns  to  the  bow 
of  the  god  of  love. 

Formerly  to  this  ornament  the  wild  tribes 
added  a  mighty  war-club  of  mezquit  wood,  flat 
and  crescent-shaped,  with  a  round  ball  at  the 
end. 

In  all  the  Indian  weapons  there  is  no  sense 
of  grace  in  outline,  except  the  curved  bow,  no 
elegance  in  the  winging,  no  brilliance  in  the 
rough  stains  of  poor  color.  They  simply 
mean  business;  the  effect  of  the  group  now 
before  me  is  savage  in  the  extreme. 

Arm  the  warrior  with  them,  mount  him  on 
a  half-wild  mustang  which  he  guides  with  the 


152  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

knee,  and  he  is  a  king  of  men.  Place  on  his 
neck  as  a  crowning  garniture  the  ornament 
taken  from  the  body  of  the  fallen  chief,  and 
round  his  neck  put  a  piece  of  doubled  horse- 
hide,  with  two  rattle-snakes'  tails,  each  con- 
taining eleven  rattles  dangling  from  it. 
Imagine  the  brutish  face  painted  in  hideous 
stripes,  vermilion  and  blue ;  the  buffalo-robe 
blanket,  the  wild  hair  flying,  the  long  lance 
whirling,  brandished  in  air,  and  add,  if  you 
can,  the  war-whoop,  a  yell — 

—"As  if  the  fiends  from  heaven  that  fell 
Had  pealed  the  banner  cry  of  hell." 

Then  you  will  have  a  picture  of  an  Apache 
Indian. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

SOMETHING   ABOUT   THE   APACHE. 

THE  chase  is  the  natural  outlet  for  much 
savagery ;  but  the  wild  tribes  of  North  America 
are  more  hardly  driven  now  than  ever  before, 
owing  to  the  rapid  disappearance  of  game,  espe- 
cially the  buffalo.  Time  was  when  the  cibola,  as 
they  called  him,  fed,  warmed,  and  clothed  the 
nomads.  Indians  are  now  moved  about  as  far 
west  as  they  can  go,  and  the  buffalo  goes  with 
them,  but  is  disappearing  much  more  rapidly 
than  the  Red  Man  is. 

The  narrowing  limits  of  his  range  make  many  a 
chase  barren  as  that  of  the  English  party  in  the 
Catskills,  gayly  hunting  the  great  American 
bison  in  the  Summer  of  1876. 

He  once  ranged  as  far   east   as  the  Atlantic 


Something  About  the  Apache.  153 

seaboard  in  Virginia  and  the  Carolinas.  From 
Catesby  we  learn  that,  about  the  year  171 2,  herds 
of  buffalo  were  seen  within  thirty  miles  of 
Charleston,  South  Carolina.  The  decrease  of 
their  main  reliance  for  food  and  clothing  alarmed 
the  tribes  years  ago ;  and  in  the  last  generation 
they  brought  forward  the  fact  in  their  pow-wows 
with  commissioners  :  "The  cibola  is  dying,  and 
the  red  brother  must  keep  peace  with  the  pale 
face,  and  eat  his  spotted  buffalo."  (Indian  for 
domestic  cattle.)  Such  was  the  peaceful  and 
alluring  speech  of  the  war  chief  of  the  Apaches  ; 
but  the  promise  of  peace  was  never  kept.  To 
steal  and  murder,  and,  under  the  show  of  friend- 
ship beat  out  the  brains  of  unsuspecting  men ; 
to  carry  off  to  captivity  worse  than  death  the 
women  and  larger  children,  was  merely  a  question 
of  opportunity. 

The  ''spotted  buffalo  of  the  white  brother" 
is  hardier  than  the  ancient  and  lawful  game  which 
ranged  in  such  vast  herds  along  the  Arkansas, 
Republican  and  Platte  Rivers,  and  the  future 
geographers  will  not  regale  ingenuous  American 
youth  with  that  blood-curdling,  hair-whitening 
picture  of  the  shaggy  and  ferocious  beasts  rush- 
ing to  suicide  over  an  awful  precipice  overhang- 
ing a  bottomless  abyss.  The  bison  will  rather 
take  his  place  in  natural  history  with  the  extinct 
dodo  and  the  out-going  cassowary. 

The  tanned  skin  of  the  buffalo  is  the  best 
material  for  the  manufacture  of  "  tepes,"  and  the 
«'  bois  de  bache  "  is  as  good  fuel  as  the  Indian 
desires.  It  has  been  erroneously  stated  that  only 
the  white  man  kills  and  wastes  buffalo.  They  are, 
or  have  been  frequently  killed  by  war  parties, 
who  take  what  may  be  needed  as  food ;  but  the 
rest  of  the  carcass  falls  to  the  portion  of  wolves 
and  ravens,  never  far  off.  Young  buffaloes  fall  a 
prey  to  the  hungry  gray  wolf  and  coyotes,  and 


1 54  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

a    sick   or   wounded    buffalo   has  a   long   train 
attendant  of  wolves,  thirsting  for  his  blood. 

Coronado,  the  old  Spanish  explorer  who  crossed 
the  Gila  in  1540,  wrote  a  curious  and  accurate 
description  of  the  cibola,  of  which  ]  copy  a  por- 
tion :  "  These  oxen  are  the  bigness  and  color  of 
our  bulls;  but  their  horns  are  not  so  great.  They 
have  a  great  bunch  upon  their  fore  shoulders,  and 
more  hair  upon  their  fore  part  than  on  their 
hinder  part;  it  is  like  wool.  They  have,  as  it 
were,  a  horse's  mane  upon  their  back-bone,  and 
much  hair  and  very  long  from  the  knee  down- 
ward. They  have  great  tufts  of  hair  hanging 
down  their  foreheads,  and  it  seemeth  they  have 
beards,  because  of  the  great  store  of  hair  hang- 
ing down  at  their  chins  and  throats.  The  males 
have  very  long  tails,  and  a  great  knob  or  flock 
at  the  end  ;  so  that,  in  some  respects,  they  resem- 
ble the  lion,  and,  in  some,  the  camel.  Their 
masters  have  no  other  riches  or  substance;  of 
them  they  eat,  they  drink,  they  apparel,  they 
shoe  themselves  ;  and  of  their  hides  make  many 
things,  as  houses  and  ropes  ;  of  their  bones  they 
make  bodkins  ;  of  their  sinews  and  hair,  thread; 
of  their  horns,  maws  and  bladders,  vessels ;  and 
of  their  calf  skins,  buckets,  wherein  they  draw 
and  keep  water." 

The  whole  living  of  the  roving  tribes  is  thus 
cut  off  with  the  buffalo.  The  Apache  love  of 
meat  is  not  fastidious,  and  they  are  fond  of  mule 
and  horse  flesh.  Deer,  antelope — whatever  the 
game  may  be — every  portion,  except  the  bones, 
is  consumed,  the  entrails  being  an  especial 
delicacy.  They  partially  cook  it,  generally  eating 
it  extremely  rare ;  that  is,  about  half  raw. 
Fertile  valleys  in  the  territories  bear  a  small 
proportion  to  the  extent  of  arid  deserts,  lava 
beds,  and  plains  of  sand.  Isolated  peaks  contain 
wood  and  springs,  thus  affording  protection  for 


Navj,jo  Indian  with  Silver  Ornaments. 


Something  About  the  Apache.  155 

the  sure-footed  savage,  who  can  outmarch  our 
best  cavalry  horses.  The  scant  grass  is  soon 
exhausted,  so  he  must  move  from  place  to  place, 
or  starve,  and  thus  necessity  is  added  to  inclina- 
tion ;  and  they  roam  over  immense  tracts  of 
country,  seeking  what  they  may  devour. 

They  have  smoke  signals  by  day  and  fire 
beacons  at  night,  and  systems  of  telegraphy 
understood  only  by  themselves.  The  displace- 
ment and  overturning  of  a  few  stones  on  a  trail, 
or  a  bent  or  broken  twig,  is  a  note  of  warning 
like  the  bugle  call  to  disciplined  troops.  They 
cross  the  Jornada  del  Muerto,  "  journey  of 
death,"  as  the  ninety  mile  desert  was  called  by 
the  Spaniard,  with  an  ease  and  fleetness  no  white 
man  can  imitate,  and,  swooping  down  from 
refuges  in  the  natural  fortresses  of  the  mountains, 
pounce  upon  the  travelers.  The  many  crosses 
dotting  the  roadsides  of  Southern  Arizona  and 
New  Mexico  mark  the  graves  of  murdered  men ; 
indeed,  the  country  seems  one  vast  graveyard,  if 
we  may  judge  by  the  frequency  of  these  rude 
memorials.  Trained  by  their  mothers  to  theft 
and  murder  from  childhood,  they  are  inured  to 
all  extremes  of  heat  and  cold,  hunger  and  thirst. 
They  are  cunning  as  the  red  fox  and  insatiate 
as  tigers,  so  ingenious  in  preparing  for  surprises 
that  they  will  envelop  themselves  in  a  gray 
blanket,  sprinkle  it  carefully  with  earth,  to 
resemble  a  granite  bowlder  and  be  passed  within 
a  few  feet  without  suspicion.  Again,  they  will 
cover  themselves  with  fresh  grass,  and,  lying 
motionless,  seem  a  natural  portion  of  the  field, 
or  hid  among  the  yuccas,  they  imitate  the 
appearance  of  the  tree,  so  as  to  pass  for  one  of 
the  plants. 

Three- fourths  of  the  Apache  country  consists 
of  barren  volcanic  rocks  and  sterile  ridges, 
where  no  plow  can  be  driven  and  no  water 


156  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

found,  and  campaigning  in  their  country  is 
exposure  to  severe  privations  and  dangers, 
aside  from  the  attacks  of  the  natives.  There 
is  no  hope  of  glory  to  cheer  the  soldier  who 
upholds  our  flag  in  that  dreary  field ;  there  is 
no  stimulus  but  duty.  If  he  succeeds,  the 
feeblest  echo  reaches  the  ears  of  friends  in 
the  states ;  scant  mention  is  made  in  the  pa- 
pers ;  there  is  small  honor  in  killing  an  Indian, 
etill  less  in  falling  before  one.  And  the  work 
is  endless,  fruitless.  It  is  to  be  recommenced 
every  Spring,  and  as  regularly  stopped  in  the 
Fall  by  the  snows  of  Autumn.  A  passing  in- 
terest is  roused ;  but  it  is  brief,  because  the 
atrocities  are  so  frequent  and  monotonous ; 
always  the  same  tale  of  insult,  torture,  death ; 
and  every  year  the  same  inquiry  is  made  at 
Washington,  and  runs  along  the  frontier,  What 
can  be  done  with  the  Apaches? 

They  should  be  exterminated,  you  say. 

Yes,  dear  reader;  but,  unfortunately  for  our 
gallant  army,  extermination  is  a  game  two 
can  play  at. 

Very  few  know,  or  care  to  know,  that  in  the 
Apache  War,  ending  October,  1880,  more  than 
four  hundred  white  persons  were  scalped  and 
tortured  to  death  with  devilish  ingenuity.  The 
war  began  on  account  of  the  removal  of  about 
four  hundred  Indians  from  their  reservation  a<: 
Ojo  Caliente  (warm  springs),  New  Mexico. 
This  is  the  ideal  of  a  happy  hunting  ground. 
Standing  on  the  parade  ground  at  Fort  Craig, 
you  look  toward  the  Black  Range  mountains, 
clad  in  pine  groves,  abounding  in  game  and  the 
precious  stones  so  rare  in  New  Mexico  and 
Arizona.  Morning  and  evening  wrap  them  in 
aerial  tints  of  surpassing  loveliness  ;  and  one  can 
well  imagine  such  a  spot  would  be  very  dear 
to  any  one  calling  it  home,  be  his  color  what  it 


Something  About  the  Apache.  157 

may.  When  the  news  came,  the  Indians  re- 
ceived the  announcement  with  deep  grief  and 
bitter  curses.  The  reason  assigned  by  our 
Government  for  the  removal  from  this  spot  to 
the  arid,  volcanic  mesa  ot  Arizona  was  that 
two  agencies  might  be  consolidated,  and  the 
expense  of  maintaining  them  lessened.  They 
went  unwillingly,  because  this  beautiful  coun- 
try was  the  land  of  their  fathers,  and  because 
they  could  not  live  peaceably  with  the  Indians 
of  the  San  Carlos  reservation,  and  only  at  the  bay- 
onet's point  would  they  march.  Their  war  chief 
was  Victorio,  successor  to  the  renowned  Magnus 
Colorado,  who  was  the  most  influential  and 
successful  statesman  and  warrior  the  Apaches 
have  had  for  a  century.  They  left  Ojo  Caliente, 
with  its  green  fields  and  glorious  mountains, 
in  the  Spring  of  1877.  ^n  September,  of  the 
same  year,  Victorio  and  his  people  stole  away 
from  San  Carlos,  saying  they  would  rather  die 
than  live  there.  They  were  pursued  by  our 
cavalry,  overtaken,  and  several  of  them  killed  ; 
many  women  and  children  were  taken  prisoners. 
The  rest  under  Victorio,  escaped,  went  to  Fort 
Wingate,  and  surrendered.  They  were  sent  back 
to  Ojo  Caliente,  and  held  as  prisoners  of  war 
until  the  order  came  from  Washington  for  them 
to  return  to  Arizona.  Then  they  stole  the 
cavalry  horses  and  started  on  the  war-path. 

The  war  was  a  series  of  ambuscades  and  re- 
treats, lasting  a  year  and  a  half.  The  details 
of  Indian  fighting  are  much  the  same  every- 
where; but  Apaches  surpass  in  cunning, 
stratagy,  secrecy,  all  the  sons  of  men.  They 
are  an  enemy  not  to  be  despised,  and  as  friends 
are  never  to  be  trusted.  Their  signal  system 
is  so  perfect  that  by  it  they  act  in  perfect 
concert,  and  bands  of  fives,  tens,  and  twen- 
ties, separated  from  each  other  by  twenty, 


758  The  Land  oj  the  Pueblos. 

thirty,  even  forty  miles,  manage  to  maintain 
a  perfect  police  intelligence  over  the  vast 
region  once  their  own  territory. 

Victorio  had  one  son  named  for  the  man 
who,  beyond  all  men  of  the  civilized  and 
even  savage  world,  has  had  the  confidence  of 
his  kind,  Washington ;  the  one  white  man 
Indians  admit  to  a  place  in  their  land  of  happy 
spirits.  He  was  shot  near  Fort  Cummings, 
and  his  death  was  a  heavy  blow  to  the  chief, 
whose  fame  and  blanket  he  was  to  inherit, 
whose  pride  was  centered  in  his  son.  In  the 
Fall  of  1879,  Washington's  body  lay  un- 
buried  in  the  deep  defile  where  he  fell ;  the 
long  hair  matted  and  dried  with  blood,  the 
flesh  shrunken  and  skin  tanned  like  old  leather. 
In  the  dry,  dewless  air  of  New  Mexico,  bod- 
ies are  not  subject  to  decay  as  in  the  East, 
and  will  shrivel  like  a  mummy  by  exposure 
to  sun  and  wind.  Long  before  this  time  the 
flesh  of  the  chief's  son  has  probably  been 
gnawed  clean  from  the  bones  by  the  ravening 
mountain  wolf. 

Washington  had  but  one  wife,  contrary 
to  the  usual  custom  of  his  tribe,  and  at  twenty, 
wooed  and  won  the  "Princess,"  as  we  used  to 
call  her,  because  she  was  of  the  royal  family 
of  the  illustrious  Magnus  Colorado.  She  was  a 
comely  damsel,  very  young,  who  assumed  some 
dignity  and  state  because  of  her  high  blood,  and 
she  never  forgot  the  ancient  splendors  of  her  line. 

Victorio  and  his  band  were  surrounded  and 
killed  in  the  Castillos  Mountains  of  Mexico,  by 
troops  under  General  Terassas  (Mexican),  and 
the  war  ended  with  a  grand  parade  in  the  city  of 
Chihuahua.  Cathedral  bells  rang,  bands  played, 
and  the  victorious  column  marched  the  street 
amid  rousing  cheers.  Following  General 
ferassas  and  his  command  came  prisoner^ 


Something  About  the  Apaches.  159 

women  and  children  on  mules  and  ponies;  they 
were  to  be  given  away  and  find  homes  among  their 
conquerors.  Behind  them  were  seventy-eight 
Mexicans,  carrying  poles  twenty  feet  high,  on 
which  were  scalps  dangling  like  waving  plumes. 
The  whole  head  of  hair  was  torn  off  instead  of 
one  tuft,  and  the  slayer  of  Victorio,  a  Farhumara 
Indian  bore  aloft  with  pride  a  pole  on  which 
hung  the  gray  scalp  of  the  dead  chief.  At  sight 
of  it  the  cheers  of  the  Mexicans  were  redoubled, 
and  I  could  but  think  so  barbaric  a  procession  is 
rarely  seen  in  one  of  the  oldest  and  wealthiest 
cities  of  the  North  American  Continent.  There 
was  great  cause  for  rejoicing;  the  bravest  and 
wiliest  of  the  Apaches  was  dead,  and  he  had  no 
son  to  succeed  him,  for  with  Victorio's  death  the 
cause  was  lost.  His  wife  cut  off  her  hair,  as  the 
old  Greek  wives  used  to,  and  buried  it,  an  offer- 
ing to  the  spirit  of  the  fallen  chief  to  whom 
she  was  devoted,  yet  said  to  be  less  slavish  than 
most  Indian  wives. 

Victorio's  band  were  all  stout  fighters  and 
dcvili-sh  when  under  the  influence  of  whiskey  or 
tiswin,  an  intoxicating  drink  made  from  corn. 
One  of  them,  Rafael,  split  his  child's  head  open 
with  an  ax,  when  drunk ;  another  time  stabbed 
his  wife  so  that  she  died.  He  was  then  over- 
come by  penitence,  sacrificed  all  of  his  beads 
and  most  of  his  clothes  to  the  dear  departed,  cut 
his  and  children's  hair  short,  and  sheared  the 
horses'  manes  and  tails.  These  manifestations  of 
anguish  over,^he  went  up  into  a  high  hill,  and 
howled  with  uplifted  hands.  That  shape,  out- 
lined against  the  intense  azure  of  the  sky,  was  a 
most  ridiculous  sight.  The  funeral  dirge  was  a 
long,  slow,  horrible  wail.  There  is  no  Apache  law 
to  touch  such  a  criminal;  and  this  case  is  less  dis- 
tressing than  one  other  which  came  i  rtVr  my 
notice  in  New  Mexico.  An  old  Ir^irr  I.O'TJU  a 


160  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

young  girl  of  her  mother,  paying  her  price  in 
ponies  and  blankets — much  against  her  will — 
she,  like  a  sensible  girl,  preferring  a  younger 
man.  She  ran  away,  and  hid  in  dark  canons  and 
pine  woods,  but  the  bridegroom  tracked  her  and 
beat  her  on  her  head  with  his  gun  for  running 
off;  and,  worst  of  all,  her  mother  thought  the 
son-in-law  was  exactly  right  in  the  matter. 
Finally,  when  her  skull  was  nearly  broken,  her 
spirit  was  entirely  gone,  and  she  yielded  to  the 
inevitable,  as  so  many  women  of  the  higher 
grade  have  done,  and  silently  took  up  the  heavy 
burden  of  life  alotted  the  wife  of  the  most  bar- 
barous of  barbarians.  Women  are  of  so  little 
account  with  these  people  that  few  of  their 
daughters  are  given  a  name,  and  even  their 
mothers  often  mourn  at  their  birth,  regarding 
them  merely  as  an  incumbrance  on  the  tribe. 
They  are  pretty  as  children,  but  the  exposure 
and  hard  work  of  their  lot  change  them  to 
wrinkled,  muscular  hags  at  thirty,  and  when 
they  die  the  Apache  chief  merely  says:  "It  was 
only  a  woman;  no  loss." 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

OLD       MINERS. 

OBLIVON  scattereth  her  poppies  even  in 
guarded  chambers  where  the  Muse  of  History 
holds  sleepless  watch,  and  the  broken,  disconnected 
annals  of  New  Mexico  in  the  seventeenth  cen- 
tury are  like  dreamy  legends  or  misty  fables  of 
the  heroic  ages. 

The  avaricious  and  despotic  governors  of  the 
province  made  no  secret  of  their  odious  laws, 
and  apalling  atrocities  are  put  on  record 


Old  Miners.  161 

in  business  manner,  without  concealment  or 
attempt  at  palliation.  Many  details  are  trivial 
and  there  are  long  catalogues  readable  by  no  man 
but  Dr.  Dryasdust.  Running  through  dispatches 
is  an  appeal  for  money,  petitions  for  appropriation 
the  keynote  of  official  song,  from  the  Empress  of 
India  down  to  the  lowest  official  of  the  youngest 
republic.  How  could  the  commandants  open 
mines,  develop  the  resources  of  Nueva  Mejico, 
even  with  slave  labor,  without  money  or  its  equi- 
valent? Beside  this  familiar  wail  are  found 
meager  and  detached  accounts  of  long  marches 
among  the  peace-loving  Pueblos,  who  hailed  the 
fair  strangers  as  gods,  and  their  horses  as  beauti- 
ful, immortal  animals,  tamed  for  the  service  of 
their  celestial  visitants.  These 


-"  most  Gothic  gentlemen  of  Spain" 


were  no  believers  in  the  rolling-stone  theory. 
We  think  of  them  as  filled  with  restless  energy  ; 
but  in  a  half  sheet  of  ancient  MS.  I  find  this 
item,  made  probably  by  a  peevish  Churchman, 
soured  because  he  missed  promotion  :  "  Our 
captains  were  great  enemies  to  all  kinds  of  labor. 
They  taught  that  gold  was  good  for  sore  eyes 
and  disease  of  the  heart.  Their  desire  for  it 
was  such  they  would  enter  into  the  infernal 
regions  and  cross  the  three  rivers  of  hell  to  obtain 
it."  One  Captain  Salazar,  in  the  Valley  of  the 
Del  Norte,  caught  a  cacique  [chief]  and  chained 
him,  to  make  him  tell  where  certain  treasure 
was  hidden.  After  holding  the  savage  in 
confinement  several  months,  the  Christian  put 
him  to  torture  ;  but  without  avail.  "We  then  let 
him  go,"  said  the  historian,  dryly ;  "for  the  miser- 
able heathen  could  not  tell  what  he  did  not  know." 
The  blood  of  the  Christian  of  that  age  ran  riot 
with  the  lust  of  gold  and  power  ;  the  two  pas- 
sions swaying  men  of  mature  years,  tempered  in 
ii 


1 62  l^he  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

youth  by  the  soft  influence  of  love.  It  is  easy  to 
understand  that  the  Pueblo  Indians,  who  were 
making  some  approaches  to  civilization  in  the 
midst  of  savagery,  then  wore  a  yoke  to  which 
the  iron  collar  of  thrall  worn  by  Gurth,  the 
swineherd,  was  light  as  a  lady's  necklace. 

History  holds  no  deeper  tragedy  than  the 
record  of  foreign  invasion  in  North  America.  The 
man  on  horseback  assumed  that  slavery  was  nec- 
essary, therefore  right,  therefore  just  ;  and  by  the 
grace  of  God  (which  meant  the  iron  hand  in  the 
glove  of  steel)  he  rewarded  captains  and  corpor- 
als with  lands  wide  as  whole  counties,  as  yet 
unmapped  and  unsubdued.  His  first  object  was 
to  pile  high  and  yet  higher  the  riches  which  main- 
tained the  splendor  of  his  house.  The  old  Cas- 
tilian  had  the  psychic  identities  of  the  modern 
one — pride,  vanity,  intolerance,  egotism,  hatred 
of  labor,  and  fondness  for  bloody  sports.  In  the 
irresponsible  positions  held  by  the  local  tyrants 
in  Nueva  Espagna  there  was  boundless  sweep 
for  gratification  of  these  traits.  Whatever  was 
not  Romish  or  Spanish  they  regarded  with  haugh- 
ty scorn.  Adventurers  those  colonists  were,  but 
adventurers  of  no  common  order.  The  spirit 
of  Crusades  was  yet  alive,  and  each  man  felt  him- 
self a  champion  of  the  Cross,  and  with  his  sword 
of  matchless  temper  vowed  to  strike  a  blow  for 
Holy  Church.  Conversion  was  ever  a  prime  ob- 
ject with  the  Conquistador.  The  saintly  Isabella 
had  it  always  at  heart,  and  one  of  the  latest  acts 
of  her  reign  was  to  commend  to  the  fathers  the 
souls  of  her  unbelieving  subjects  across  the  sea. 
The  fanatic  zeal  of  the  padres  reached  through 
every  grade,  and  the  hidalgos  gloried  in  the  title 
"  Swords  of  the  Church."  The  temples  of  sin, 
as  the  little  mud  estufas,  or  chapels,  of  the  Indians 
were  called,  must  be  leveled,  false  gods  and  alter- 
fires  overthrown,  and  the  heathen  brought  to  the 


Old  Miners.  163 

true  faith,  under  their  converting  steel.  The  ear- 
liest revolt  of  the  Pueblos,  after  the  first  conquest, 
grew  out  of  the  whipping  of  forty  natives,  be- 
cause they  refused  to  accept  the  new  religion  and 
bow  to  the  hated  cross  of  the  unseen  God  of  the 
stranger. 

The  early  colonists  were  all  miners  ;  but,  ow- 
ing to  the  care  taken  in  concealments  of  them  by 
the  natives,  little  is  left  to  indicate  operations, 
except  miles  of  earth  cut  into  running  galleries 
and  driven  tunnels.  Slavery  everywhere,  when 
applied  to  field  labor,  is  destructive  to  human 
life.  What  must  it  have  been  when  directed  to 
mining,  under  taskmasters  who  did  not  value  one 
life  at  a  pin's  fee  ? 

Even  with  the  aid  of  science,  machinery,  and 
the  many  humanities  of  the  nineteenth  century, 
it  is  still  the  most  melancholy  of  trades.  The 
task  of  him  who  "hangs  in  midway  air"  to  gather 
samphire  is  not  half  so  dreadful  as  work  done  in 
danger  from  every  element. 

The  ruins  of  a  large  prison  among  the  placers 
of  the  Miembres  Mountains,  abandoned  mines 
reopened,  and  tradition^  of  Indians  clearly  show 
that  the  conquered  races  were  treated  as  though 
they  did  not  belong  to  the  human  family.  There 
is  infinite  pathos  in  the  banishment  of  the  un- 
tamed Indian  from  the  free  Sierras  and  the  glad 
sunshine  to  gloomy  caverns,  where  thousands 
were  actually  buried  alive.  They  were  driven 
to  toil  under  the  lash  and  at  the  bayonets' 
point;  in  peril  from  falling  walls,  deadly  gas, 
sudden  floods,  and  the  work  was  done  by  manual 
labor  alone.  They  broke  the  rocks  with  misera- 
ble tools  and  insufficient  light,  and  mixed  the  ores 
slowly  and  painfully  with  naked  feet.  Quartz 
was  ground  in  rude  arrastres,  or  mills  to  which 
men  and  women  were  yoked  like  cattle.  Every 
ounce  of  precious  metal  was  literally  the  price  of 
blood. 


1 64  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

So  changless  are  the  Spaniard  and  the  Indian 
that  the  description  of  a  miner  near  Chihuahua, 
written  last  year,  will  do  tolerably  well  for  the 
Pueblo  of  the  seventeenth  century.  Then,  as 
now,  the  Spaniard  was  the  overseer.  The  peon 
is  the  slave  of  to-day.  As  a  rule,  Mexicans, 
however  intelligent  and  educated,  have  no  genius 
for  machinery.  They  blow,  crush,  and  drill  as  their 
fathers  did  before  them,  and  for  transportation 
of  ore  they  prefer  a  train  of  mules  to  a  train  of 
cars.  The  miner  in  the  sepulchral  shades  of  San 
Domingo  has  never  heard  of  crushing-mills  or 
cars.  A  yard-square  piece  of  untanned  hide, 
stretched  on  two  sticks,  is  his  wheelbarrow. 
The  drill,  the  pick,  the  crowbar  are  his  only  tools. 
Out  of  the  black  door  of  the  mine  he  steps 
quickly,  lightly,  though  weighted  by  a  sack  con- 
taining a  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  of  ore.  A 
broad  band  of  rawhide  attaches  the  burden  to 
his  forehead.  He  is  naked  ^  as  when  he  came 
into  the  world.  His  neck  and  limbs  are  like  a 
prize-fighter's.  The  perspiration  streams  from 
his  sooty  face  and  body,  and  his  breast  heaves 
spasmodically.  There  are  no  air-shafts,  and  for 
two  hours  he  has  been  down  in  the  hydrogen  of 
the  mine.  The  path  he  has  travelled,  in  ascending, 
winds  hither  and  thither  ;  now  up,  then  down  ; 
now  in  a  chamber  of  whose  extent  he  has  no 
conception  ;  now  through  a  gallery  narrow  as 
the  cavity  of  a  sugar  hogshead — so  narrow  that, 
to  bear  his  cargo  through,  he  must  double  and 
crawl  like  a  panther  ;  now  along  a  slippery 
Icd^e,  where  the  slightest  error  in  the  placement 
of  a  hand  or  foot  is  instant  death,  because  on 
one  side  is  an  abyss  which  for  the  matter  of  vis- 
ion might  as  well  be  fathomless.  Now  it  turns  a 
sharp  corner  ;  now  it  traverses  rough  masses  of 
rocks,  which  are  not  all  debris  from  blasting,  for 
some  of  them  have  tumbled  from  the  roof,  and 


Old  Miners.  165 

may  be  followed  by  "companion  pieces"  at  any 
moment.  Woe  to  him  whom  they  catch  !  Thus 
for  more  than  half  an  hour  the  poor  wretch  has 
come.  To  such  a  feat,  performed  regularly  six 
times  a  day,  what  is  crossing  the  rapids  of  Niag- 
ara on  a  wire?  What  wonder  that  the  breast 
heaves  and  the  sweat  pours?  Have  you  not 
heard  a  man  escaped  from  drowning  tell  of  the 
agony  thrilling  him  the  instant  the  life-saving  air 
rushed  into  the  cells  of  his  collapsed  lungs? 
Something  like  that  this  poor  miner  and  his  com- 
rades say  they  suffer  every  time  they  pass  the 
door  of  the  mine,  suddenly  into  the  rarefied  atmos- 
phere of  the  upper  world.  Horrible  life  !  And 
how  wretchedly  rewarded !  Between  mining  and 
morals  there  is  no  connection,  still  the  question 
comes  :  Was  it  for  this  God  gave  him  a  soul  ? 

The  man's  first  act,  on  stepping  into  daylight, 
is  to  snatch  the  little  tallow-dip  from  its  perch  on 
his  head  and  blow  it  out.  It  cost  him  a  claco 
only  ;  but  it  was  such  a  friend  down  in  Tartarus  ! 
Without  it,  could  he  have  ever  risen  to  the  light  ? 
As  its  glimmer  came  dancing  up  the  rugged 
way,  how  the  darkness  parted  before  him  and  the 
awaiting  gulfs  revealed  themselves !  He  proceeds 
next  to  the  door  of  the  roofless  house.  A  man 
meets  him,  helps  him  unload,  takes  the  sack  to 
a  rough  contrivance  and  weighs  it,  giving  a  ticket 
of  credit.  Not  a  word  is  spoken.  They  are  like 
gliding  ghosts.  Resuming  the  emptied  sack,  the 
naked  wretch  turns,  walks  quickly  to  the  entrance 
of  the  mine,  lights  the  friendly  taper,  looks  once 

"to  sun,  and  stream,  and  plain, 

As  what  he  ne'er  might  see  again," 

re-enters  the  rocky  jaws,  and  wades  back  through 
the  inner  darkness.  Yet  he  is  not  alone.  He  is  a 
type.  He  has  comrades  whom  he  will  meet  on 
the  way ;  comrades  in  the  extremest  pit,  wherein 
the  sounds  of  rueful  labor  are  blended  with 
mournful  talk. 


1 66  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

The  friction  of  the  coming  and  going  of  miners 
has  polished  the  slippery  floor  to  glassy  smooth- 
ness. With  the  help  of  guides,  we  descended 
the  black  pit,  and  deep  in  the  heart  of  the  moun- 
tain sought  the  men  at  work.  The  wretched 
candle  each  one  carried  served  not  so  much  to 
illuminate  our  way  as  it  appeared  to  burn  a  little 
hole  in  the  darkness.  Perspiration  fairly  rained 
from  us  ;  but  we  came  to  see,  and  pushed  on  in 
the  black  solitude,  till  strength  and  courage 
almost  failed.  At  last  we  observed,  far  off  to 
our  right,  a  light  dimly  reddening  the  rocky  wall. 
Miners  at  work !  Good !  Just  what  we  came 
for.  Slowly,  carefully,  painfully  we  drew  near 
the  beacon.  There  was  no  sound  of  voices,  no 
ring  of  hammers,  nor  echo  of  blows.  A  solitary 
workman  was  playing  the  mystic  art.  He  had  not 
heard  our  approach,  and  we  stopped  to  observe 
him  before  speaking.  A  little  basket  at  his  left 
contained  a  few  tallow  dips  and  some  tortillas 
Close  by,  in  position  to  illuminate  brightly  about 
two  feet  of  the  wall  directly  in  front  of  him,  was 
his  lighted  candle.  A  pile  of  fine  crushed  ore, 
the  result  of  his  labor,  covered  the  floor  to  his 
right,  and  on  it  lay  an  iron  bar  and  a  pick. 
Above  him  extended  a  vault  in  the  darkness 
without  limit.  He  had  come  there  about  the 
break  of  day  in  the  upper  world.  He  came 
alone,  and  alone  he  had  remained.  Not  a  word 
had  he  heard,  not  one  spoken.  The  candles  not 
merely  lightened  his  labor  :  but,  since  each  one 
would  burn  about  so  long — a  certain  number 
exhausting  by  noon,  another  bringing  the  night 
— they  also  kept  his  time.  The  solitude  was 
awful !  In  the  uncertain  light  the  naked,  crouch- 
ing body  seemed  that  of  an  animal.  We  spoke 
to  him.  The  voice  was  kindly,  yet  it  sounded 
in  his  ears,  so  long  attuned  to  silence,  like  a 
pistol-shot.  He  started  up  in  attitude  of  defense. 


Th*.  New  Miners.  167 

He  may  be  squatted  at  the  base  of  the  same 
wall  to-day.  Pity  for  him,  wherever  he  is  !  Pity 
for  all  of  his  craft !  " 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

THE   NEW   MINERS. 

THE  modern  Mexican  is  true  to  the  traditions 
of  old  Spain — jealous  of  foreigners,  opposed  to 
change,  ever  copying  the  past. 

There  is  a  legend  across  the  waters  that  one 
morning,  not  a  great  while  ago,  the  glorious 
angel  who  keeps  the  keys  of  the  viewless  gate 
gave  Adam  permission  to  come  back  and  look 
after  his  farm.  Watched  by  Gabriel,  chief  of 
the  guard  angelic,  the  spirit  (oldest  of  all  created, 
yet  forever  young)  dropped  through  the  silent 
starry  spaces,  among  rushing  planets  and  blazing 
suns,  numbered  only  in  Heaven,  poised  above 
the  Alps,  and  looked  over  Germany.  The  men 
were  smoking  meerschaums,  drinking  beer,  and 
talking  metaphysics,  Disgusted,  he  fled  in  swift 
flight  toward  France.  There  he  saw  nothing  but 
polite  frivolities.  The  soul  of  our  common 
ancestor  was  saddened.  France  was  even  worse 
than  Germany.  He  did  not  linger.  Taking 
wing  while  morn  still  purpled  the  east,  he  crossed 
the  mountains  into  Spain,  and,  resting  incumbent 
on  air,  surveyed  the  kingdom.  One  glance  across 
it  sufficed.  The  spirit  folded  his  radiant  wings. 
"Ah!"  he  cried,  enraptured.  "Home  again! 
Here  all  is  just  as  I  left  it."  This  old  story  well 
illustrates  the  influence  of  Iberain  aversion  to 
change,  which  has  been  felt  wherever  Spain  has 
had  a  lasting  foothold  in  the  New  World.  The 
antiquated  mining  implements  of  the  by-gone 


1 63  Th*>  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

generations  of  New  Mexico  are  the  queerest 
things  in  the  world  to  the  Leadviller,  used  to  the 
ponderous  quartz  mills,  driven  by  invisible  power, 
moving  like  a  free  intelligence. 

When  the  mines  in  the  Placer  Mountains,  thirty 
miles  southwest  of  the  City  of  Holy  Faith,  were 
in  operation,  they  were  worked  by  the  old-fash- 
ioned Spanish  arrastre,  the  rudest,  most  wasteful 
of  mining  machines.  It  consists  in  nothing  more 
than  two  large  flat  stones,  attached  to  a  horizon- 
tal beam  and  drawn  around  by  a  mule  (in  the 
days  of  slavery  by  men  and  women),  upon  a  bed 
of  flat  stones.  The  process  of  grinding  the  ore 
was  slow,  the  amalgamation  imperfect,  and  not 
more  than  one-third  of  the  gold  could  be  separ- 
ated from  the  quartz. 

There  is  good  reason  for  believing  that  mines 
near  Santa  Fe  were  worked  in  this  way  before 
Hudson  entered  the  river  which  bears  his  name. 
They  were  probably  en  bonanza  in  the  years 
when  the  great  Queen,  steering  the  English  ship 
through  stormy  seas,  paused  amid  the  breakers 
to  listen  to  the  wooing  of  Robert  Dudley. 

The  Spaniard  in  that  day  mined  with  stone 
hammers,  and  it  is  surprising  to  us  they  could 
sink  deep  shafts  with  such  wretched  appliances. 
They  were  ignorant  of  carbonates  of  silver,  and 
took  nothing  but  the  argentiferous  galena  from 
the  vein,  throwing  away  nine-tenths  of  the  best- 
paying  mineral.  There  is  little  statistical  know- 
ledge of  the  working  of  any  one  mine  in  this  ter- 
ritory, but  old  Church  records  are  said  to  show 
that  the  ten  per  cent,  in  tithes  collected  for  it 
amounted  to  about  ten  millions.  This  was  real- 
ized from  mines  adjacent  to  Santa  Fe.  In  each  of 
the  ravines  running  into  the  Canada  de  las  Minas 
(Glen  of  Mines)  more  or  less  of  "float"  is  found. 
This  is  silver-bearing  galena  ore,  washed  from 
lodes  crossing  the  ravines,  and  is  certain  indica- 
tion of  silver  leads  in  close  vicinity. 


Tk*.   New  Miners.  169 

In  1846,  when  Gen.  Kearney  took  possession 
of  Santa  Fe,  nearly  all  the  miners  left  the  placers, 
never  to  return.  Many  reasons  are  giver  for 
their  hasty  flight,  one  of  which  is  that,  being 
Mexicans,  they  feared  impressment  into  the 
American  service,  and  escaped  while  they  could. 
It  is  believed  that  mining  operations  in  the  hight 
of  prosperity  then  suddenly  stopped,  as  the 
abandoned  and  decaying  town  of  Francisco  near 
by  shows ;  and  but  little  has  since  been  done  to 
revive  the  business  until  within  the  last  few 
years. 

Los  Cerillos  Mines,  now  being  rapidly  opened 
up,  are  in  a  chain  of  low  conical  mountains  north 
of  the  Galisteo,  twenty  miles  from  the  capital 
city.  In  these  ranges  are  found  syenitic  rocks, 
carboniferous  limestone  and  sandstone  formations, 
the  latter  containing  coal.  They  are  traversed 
for  thirty  or  forty  miles  with  valuable  lodes,  the 
veins  running  from  the  northeast  to  the  southwest, 
and  almost  daily  fresh  "Spanish  traces,"  old 
workings,  come  in  sight,  to  cheer  the  heart  of 
the  prospector.  After  the  rebellion  of  1680  the 
Indians  returned  to  their  pueblos  and  submitted 
to  the  foreign  yoke,  on  condition  that  mines 
should  not  be  reopened.  It  would  appear  the 
treaty  was  kept  in  good  faith,  and  that  the  very 
ancient  mines  remained  untouched  during  the 
subsequent  period  of  Spanish  rule.  Some  of 
these  old  diggings  in  Los  Cerillos  have  been  so 
carefully  concealed  that  it  requires  the  keenest 
scrutiny  to  find  them.  The  shaft  of  the  Santa 
Rosa  Mine,  on  reopening,  was  found  to  have  been 
sunk  fifty-five  feet.  One  shaft  is  one  hundred 
and  sixty-five  feet  to  water.  How  much  deeper 
no  man  can  tell  The  debris  and  precious  mineral 
were  carried  up  on  the  backs  of  peones,  and  the 
notched  cedar  trees  which  were  their  only  ladders 
two  hundred  years  ago  are  still  the  means  of 


l;o  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

descent  to  the  venturesome  traveler,  exploring 
the  rediscovered  galleries. 

The  early  proprietaries  followed  no  rules  in 
prospecting.  They  were  led  by  whim,  or  most 
frequently  by  dreams,  the  medium  of  communica- 
tion preferable  to  the  patron  saints.  The  most 
prejudiced  observer  can  not  help  admiring  the 
boldness  and  energy  of  their  movements.  And 
the  fields  are  just  as  rich  to-day.  If  they  paid 
under  such  feeble,  unskilled  management,  they 
must  be  much  more  profitable  now,  with  the  help 
of  science  and  delicate  machinery.  For  three 
hundred  years  and  more  the  sands  have  been 
washed  out  at  the  base  of  Los  Cerillos ;  but  not 
until  very  recently  have  those  washing  for  precious 
grains  of  metal  thought  of  looking  to  the  source, 
the  core  of  the  mountains,  for  the  best  deposits. 
This  was  the  process  of  experiment  and  experience 
in  the  great  California  Gulch  at  Leadville. 

In  these  volcanic  hills,  still  bearing  marks  of 
the  fiery  lava  flow,  are  the  Montezuma  Turquoise 
Mines,  which  are  marvels  of  deep  excavation. 
In  one  instance  half  a  mountain  is  cut  away  by 
Indians  of  the  pre-historic  period,  in  their  search 
for  the  coveted,  the  priceless  chalchuite,  the 
Aztecan  diamond. 

The  tradition  runs  that  anciently  the  gold  and 
silver-bearing  ores  were  borne  on  the  backs  of 
burros  to  Chihuahua,  Mexico  (six  hundred  miles 
away),  for  reduction;  that  long  trains  of  the 
patient  creatures,  lean,  thirsty,  and  beaten  with 
many  stripes,  were  perpetually  coming  and  going 
along  the  Valley  del  Norte,  curtaining  it  with 
clouds  of  yellow  dust. 

It  seems  a  baseless  tradition.  If  the  gold- 
hunters  could  reduce  their  ores  in  Chihuahua, 
why  not  in  Santa  Fe  as  well?  In  1867  the  larger 
portion  of  El  Palacio,  then  standing,  was  cleared 
away,  and,  among  many  curious  relics  brought  to 


The  New  Miners.  171 

light,  after  long  burial,  was  a  clumsy  smelting 
furnace,  thoroughly  bricked  up  on  every  side  and 
worn  with  long  and  hard  usage.  From  its  ashes 
were  taken  out  bits  of  charcoal,  showing  clearly 
that  ages  ago,  time  out  of  mind,  the  Spaniards 
discovered  and  used  it  in  smelting  their  ores. 

The  ancient  method  of  washing  for  silver  was 
a  very  simple  process.  The  operator  required 
nothing  but  a  crowbar,  a  shovel,  and  a  tanned 
skin.  This  last  he  fashioned  into  a  water-tight 
basin  by  stretching  it  upon  a  square  frame.  Fill- 
ing it  with  water,  he  stood  over  it,  rocking  in  it  a 
little  tub  holding  sand  and  grit,  from  which, 
washed  free  of  clay  and  earth,  he  separated  the 
worthless  pebbles,  and  selected  the  valuable  par- 
ticles. 

In  old  ranches  through  the  country  we  occa- 
sionally see  an  antique  candlestick  of  beaten  sil- 
ver, or  a  salt-cellar  of  hammered  plata — heirlooms 
proving  that  in  long-gone  generations  silver  was 
found  and  in  quantities. 

Ask  how  old  they  are,  and  the  ever-ready 
"  Quien  sabe  "  is  the  answer. 

From  the  beginning  of  the  seventeenth  till  the 
eighteenth  century  there  was  a  rapid  succession 
of  rebellions  and  civil  wars,  with  Santa  Fe  as 
the  field  and  the  important  strategic  point.  In 
1680  the  Pueblos  allied  with  the  Teguas — 
described  as  a  nation  of  warriors — and  routed  the 
Spaniards,  driving  them  from  the  land  as  far 
south  as  El  Paso  del  Norte. 

Another  army  was  mustered  and  sent  up  from 
the  City  of  Mexico,  but  feared  to  take  the  offen- 
sive, and  for  twelve  years  the  land  had  rest,  was 
quiet,  as  before  the  foreign  invasion.  It  was  in 
this  interval  of  twelve  years  that  the  ancient  mines 
were  hidden.  All  the  old  mineral  workings  were 
covered  and  carefully  concealed,  and  death  was 
the  penalty  for  any  who  should  reveal  to  white 


'72  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

men  where  precious  metals  or  stones  were  to  be 
found.  After  1692  mining  in  the  province  was 
abandoned,  and  to  this  day  it  is  the  rarest  thing 
for  a  Spaniard  or  an  Indian  to  engage  in  mining. 
They  seem  to  have  forsaken  it  forever. 

It  is  said  that  in  the  whole  compass  of  East 
Indian  literature  there  is  not  a  single  passage 
showing  a  love  of  liberty.  The  millions  appear 
created  for  the  gratification  of  one  man.  If  the 
West  Indian  be,  indeed,  his  brother,  then  were 
brothers  never  so  unlike.  To  the  North  Ameri- 
can, freedom  is  the  very  breath  of  his  nostrils,  and 
the  degradation  of  slavery  worse  than  slow  tor- 
ture or  sudden  death. 

In  irrepressible  yearning  for  liberty  the  Pueblos 
escaped  from  mines,  such  as  I  have  attempted  to 
describe,  to  inaccessible  mountain  fastnesses,  the 
steeps  of  distant  canons  and  hiding-places  ia 
dens  of  animals.  How  many  perished  in  the&e 
realms  of  silence  and  despair  none  but  the  record- 
ing angel  can  testify.  The  polished  armor  of  the 
invaders  covered  hearts  hard  as  triple  brass,  and 
silken  banners  floated  over  knights  whose  avarice 
was  equalled  only  by  their  cruelty.  The  fugitives 
were  tracked  and  hunted  down  with  bloodhounds, 
as  though  they  were  beasts  of  prey. 

As  has  been  written  of  the  same  tragedy  then 
being  enacted  in  Peru  :  "  It  was  one  unspeakable 
outrage,  one  unutterable  ruin,  without  discrimina- 
tion of  age  or  sex.  From  hiding-places  in  the 
clefts  of  rocks  and  the  solitude  of  invisible  caves, 
where  there  was  no  witness  but  the  all-seeing  sun, 
there  went  up  to  God  a  cry  of  human  despair." 
The  Bishop  of  Chiapsa,  himself  a  Spaniard,  affirms 
that  more  than  fifteen  millions  were  cut  off  in  his 
time,  slaves  of  the  mines.  On  the  Northern  Con- 
tinent history  is  but  an  imperfect  guide.  That 
the  rich  valleys  of  the.  Rio  Grande  and  the  Pecos 
cnce  held  a  dense  population  is  plainly  proved 


The  New  Miners.  I'/i 

by  the  ruins  of  cities  slowly  crumbling  away.  \Ve 
have  only  dim  glances  into  long,  dark  spaces ;  but 
there  is  light  enough  to  see  the  conqueror's  daily 
walk  was  on  the  necks  of  the  conquered  natives, 
who  swiftly  declined  to  an  abject  and  heart- 
broken race. 

So  great  was  the  horror  of  the  first  conquest 
that  the  memory  of  it  has  been  kept  alive  through 
ten  generations.  The  Pueblo  mother  still  shud- 
ders as  she  tells  the  story  of  ancient  wrong  and 
woe  to  her  children ;  and  the  unwritten  law  yet 
binds  the  red  race  to  secrecy,  and  is  a  hindrance 
in  the  opening  of  mines  in  the  territories. 

Princely  fortunes  were  made,  and,  if  tribes, 
whole  nations,  were  swept  off  the  face  of  the  earth ; 
they  were  but  so  many  heathen  less  to  cumber 
the  ground  and  drag  the  march  of  conquest.  To 
understand  how  valueless  human  life  was  then, 
look  down  the  steep  sides  of  the  old  mines  reop- 
ened. Rows  of  cedar  pegs  serve,  you  see,  as  lad- 
ders along  the  black  walls,  from  the  bottom  to  the 
entrance.  Imagine  a  man  climbing  up,  weighted 
with  a  sack  containing  a  hundred  pounds  of  ore, 
fastened  to  his  back  by  a  broad  band  of  raw-hide 
across  his  forehead.  The  slightest  error  in  the 
placement  of  hand  or  foot  must  miss  the  hold,  and 
the  burden-bearer  be  dashed  to  pieces;  but  it 
could  have  been  no  loss,  else  better  means  would 
have  been  provided.  There  must  have  been  hun- 
dreds at  hand  to  take  his  place. 

When  did  Spain  stretch  forth  her  hand,  except 
to  scatter  curses  ?  It  is  part  of  my  faith,  derived 
from  the  study  of  history — in  fact,  it  is  the  great 
lesson  of  history — that  nations  are  punishable, 
like  individuals,  and  that  for  every  national  sin 
there  is,  soon  or  late,  a  national  expiation.  Does 
not  Spain  place  the  doctrine  beyond  question  ? 
No  European  power  has  had  such  opportunities 
for  noble  achievement ;  yet  what  good  has  come 


1 74  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

through  her?  What  grand  idea  or  benign  prin- 
ciple, what  wholesome  impression  upon  mankind? 
She  was  the  Tarshish  of  Solomon  ;  her  mines 
were  the  subject  of  quarrel  between  the  Roman 
and  Carthagenian ;  in  the  day  of  Christ  she  still 
supplied  the  world  with  the  royal  metals.  Such 
were  her  resources  in  the  beginning.  Afterwards, 
when  commerce  reached  out  through  the  Pillars 
of  Hercules  and  drew  the  West  in  under  its  influ- 
ences, a  people  of  masterful  genius,  sitting  where 
Europe  bends  down  so  close  to  Africa,  would 
have  stretched  a  gate  from  shore  to  shore  and  by 
it  ruled  the  earth. 

Yet  later  she  received  the  gift  of  the  New 
World.  Where  is  the  trophy  marking  her 
beneficent  use  of  the  gift?  She  had  already 
ruined  the  civilization  which  had  its  seat  in  the 
pillared  shades  of  the  Alhambra.  In  her  keeping 
were  placed  the  remains  of  the  Aztec  and  the 
relics  of  the  Incas,  only  to  be  destroyed.  Drunk 
with  the  blood  of  nations,  she  who  ruthlessly 
subjected  everything  to  the  battle-ax,  the  rack, 
and  the  torch  is  now  dying  of  slow  decay. 

Could  the  breath  blow  from  the  four  winds  and 
breathe  upon  the  Indians,  reckoned  by  millions, 
who  perished  under  Spanish  rule;  if  their  dust 
could  but  come  together,  and  all  those  slain  live 
again  and  testify,  alas!  for  Castelar,  wisest  of 
visionaries,  awaiting  the  Republic  of  Europe  to 
bring  about  the  resurrection  of  his  country." 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

THE   HONEST   MINER. 

THE  man  on  the  frontier  who  has  no  speculation 
in  his  eyes  is  dead  as  Banquo.  The  contagion 
of  soul,  says  the  ancient  philosopher,  is  quicker 
than  that  of  the  body,  and  I  have  yet  to  see  the 
one  with  soul  so  dead  as  to  refuse  a  venture  in 
mines,  and  wholly  resist  the  fever  which  spares 
neither  age  nor  sex,  yet  is  not  fatal  or  even 
unpleasant.  While  the  craze  lasts,  it  affects  the 
brain,  quickening  the  imagination  and  distorting 
the  vision.  Under  its  powerful  alchemy  discolored 
stones  by  the  wayside  become  bowlders  of  ore, 
it  seams  bare  cliffs  with  veins  of  gleaming  metal, 
plants  mines  in  impossible  places,  converts  vertical 
strata  into  immense  deposits.  All  the  way  it 
silvers  the  dreams  of  night  and  lengthens  them 
unbroken  into  the  day.  Knowledge  comes  to 
the  fever-smitten  without  study.  One  glance  at 
a  lofty  mountain-range  is  sufficient  to  determine 
if  it  be  metalliferous,  and,  balancing  a  lump  of 
ore  on  his  gritty  forefinger,  he  can  tell  its  exact 
per  cent,  of  silver. 

The  victim  of  the  epidemic  carries  scraps  of 
grimy  stuff  in  his  pockets,  wrapped  in  dirty 
cloths,  and  a  small  magnifying  glass,  into  whicli 
he  puckers  his  fevered  eyes  many  times  in  the 
twenty-four  hours,  and  surveys  his  uncoined 
treasure  with  doating  glances.  He  unselfishly 
allows  confidential  friends  to  look  through  the 
lens,  and  expects  enthusiastic  admiration  in  return 
for  the  privilege.  Unless  the  confidential  friend 
is  an  enemy  in  disguise,  he  will  gloat  over  the 
earthy  specimens  too.  He  talks  little,  if  at  all, 
apparently  in  a  generous  burst  of  feeling  about 


1 76  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

bonanzas.  En  bonanza  means  literally  smooth 
sailing,  a  fair  breeze,  etc. ,  and  is  used  by  Mexican 
miners,  applied  to  exceedingly  rich  ores  or 
"shoots."  Free  translation,  "booming."  His 
voice  is  pitched  in  a  low  key — a  loud,  impressive, 
I  may  say  distracting  whisper.  The  delirium  is 
pleasurable,  for  the  man's  hopes  are  indomitable, 
and  a  secret  trust  covers  a  dark  stratum,  so  to 
speak,  of  fear ;  but  he  is  reticent,  grave  as  though 
his  shafts  had  pierced  to  the  very  center  of 
gravity. 

The  arithmetic  man,  who  loves  figures,  has 
estimated  that  in  the  flush  times  of  Colorado  the 
successful  were  one  to  every  five  hundred  honest 
miners.  He  has  not  brought  in  returns  from  the 
territories,  and  there  is,  in  consequence,  broader 
sweep  for  imagination  in  the  undeveloped  regions, 
where  mining  is  yet  partly  experiment. 

The  fortunes  of  two  or  three  millionaires 
balance  the  losses  of  thousands,  like  the  many 
deaths  which  go  to  make  up  a  victory.  Are  you 
the  five  hundredth  or  eight  hundredth  happy 
child  of  Destiny,  the  victorious  captain  for  whom 
the  unnamed  heroes  fell?  You?  Of  the  bonanza 
king  we  daily  hear  by  telegraph,  photograph, 
autograph.  Of  the  vast  army  of  the  defeated— 
nothing.  Singly  they  tramp  back  home,  steal  in 
darkly  at  dead  of  night,  ravage  the  pantry,  and, 
having  slept  off  fatigue,  are  ready  to  deny  having 
thought  of  Leadville  and  Golden. 

One  of  the  cheapest  and  easiest  ways  of  reach- 
ing a  mine  is  by  a  "  grubstake."  This  euphonious 
word  means  a  certain  sum  (say  one  hundred  and 
eighty  dollars)  advanced  to  a  man  by  another, 
with  more  money  and  less  time,  and  the  pros- 
pector has  an  interest  in  whatever  he  may  find. 
You  meet  Lim  on  every  road,  every  highway, 
every  by-way,  and  where  there  is  no  way  in  the 
territories,  The  prospective  millionaire  gener- 


The  Honest  Miner.  177 

ally  wears  an  umbrageous  hickory  shirt,  sleeves 
usually  rolled  to  the  elbow,  exposing  arms  not  the 
fairest,  buckskin  or  brown  duck  pants,  or  a  ready- 
made  suit,  ready  to  be  unmade  at  the  seams,  and 
a  hat  of  superlative  slouch.  His  head  is  shaggy 
as  a  buffalo's,  with  sun-scorched  hair,  and  his  face, 
lined  with  fierce  sunbeat  and  wrinkling  wind,  is 
a  glossy  red,  as  though  it  had  been  veneered, 
sand-papered,  and  varnished.  He  carries  a  strik- 
ing hammer,  weighing  from  five  to  eight  pounds. 
Does  it  look  like  an  enchanter's  rod  ?  In  his 
hand  it  may  prove  a  fairy  wand,  potent  as  the 
double-headed  hammer  of  Thor.  His  burro,  or 
donkey,  is  not  much  larger  than  a  sheep,  yet  able 
to  bear  three  hundred  pounds'  weight.  On  the 
patient,  long-suffering  brute  is  strapped  a  blanket. 
Above  it  are  piled  rations  of  bacon,  sugar,  crack- 
ers, a  pick  and  shovel,  and  a  tin  pot  for  boiling  a 
coarse  brown  powder,  called  in  bitter  (very  bitter) 
sarcasm  coffee.  In  seeking  claims,  he  is  oftenest 
attended  by  a  partner,  familiarly  and  affection- 
ately called  "  my  pard."  In  this  land  of  sudden 
death,  where  every  man  carries  pistols  and  loves 
to  use  them,  one  lone  prospector  may  be  picked 
off  almost  anywhere,  and  his  bones  left  in  deep 
canon  or  lonesome  gulch,  and  no  questions  asked. 
It  is  best  to  hunt  in  couples.  Like  the  intelli- 
gent and  reliable  contraband  of  other  days,  the 
honest  miner  is  forever  bringing  in  good  news. 
"  Lee  is  just  where  we  want  him  !"  "  The  latest 
find  is  prodigious,  the  best  thing  yet,  and  lacks 
nothing  but  capital  for  development  to  equal  any- 
thing in  the  Comstock  Lode  or  Santa  Eulalia !  " 
This  last  is  a  mine  worth  having,  where  the  early 
diggers  set  no  value  on  common  ore,  but  sought 
"  pockets,"  rich  with  silver ;  a  soft  yellow  clay, 
scooped  out  rapidly  and  easily  with  horn  spoons. 
Sometimes  they  were  of  immense  extent,  require- 
ing  years  to  exhaust. 


178  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

I  have  not  boen  able  to  learn  why  the  miner  is 
always  named  the  honest  miner ;  but  such  is  the 
fact.  To  this  well-worn  adjective  are  sometimes 
added  reticent  and  successful,  when  the  speaker 
wishes  to  be  unusually  impressive.  It  has  been 
written  that  mining  speculations,  like  transactions 
in  horse-flesh,  have  a  tendency  to  blunt  moral  per- 
ceptions, and  soured  politicians  insinuate  it  was 
first  phrased  by  ambitious  patriots  who  were  anx- 
ious to  secure  his  suffrage.  Be  that  as  it  may, 
the  honest  miner  is  our  man  now.  Though  he 
does  not  pretend  to  be  a  poet,  his  is  the  vision  and 
faculty  divine.  He  is  attended  by  presences  to 
other  eyes  unseen,  like  the  inspired  sculptor,  who 
in  a  heavenly  fervor  of  inspiration  hewed  the 
rough  block  of  marble  by  the  roadside  and  let  the 
prisoned  angel  out.  By  break  of  day,  while  the 
warm  valley  still  holds  the  night  in  its  bosom,  he 
is  up  and  on  the  march.  The  shadow  of  a  great 
rock  or  a  sighing  pine  has  been  his  shelter,  the 
overarching  blue  canopy  his  tent,  the  world  is  his 
field.  For  his  unfailing  appetite  there  are  crack- 
ers, bacon,  and  coffee.  Like  Macaulay's  fellow- 
traveler,  he  breakfasts  as  if  he  had  fasted  the  day 
before,  and  dines  as  though  he  had  never  break- 
fasted. His  burro  is  happy  as  that  melancholy 
beast  can  be  on  a  little  grama  grass  (ALthcroma 
oligistarchoti)  or  twigs  and  leaves  of  scrub  oak. 
He  wanders  from  the  borderline  northward,  among 
cold,  sharp,  icy  crags,  where  desolation  dwells  in 
matchless  state ;  where,  among  treeless,  bald  peaks, 
she  holds  and  guards  her  Paradise,* perfect  even 
to  the  grim,  painted  savage,  who,  with  scalping- 
knife,  instead  of  flaming  sword,  does  the  duty  of 
the  sentinel-angel  at  the  gate.  Lava-beds  do  not 
stop  him,  nor  chaparral,  mezquit,  or  cactus  jungle, 
or  the  pricking  "  Spanish  bayonet."  In  wither- 
ing wind,  in  blinding  snow  and  drifting  sand,  the 
undaunted  fellow  pushes  his  search  for  rich  leads, 


The  Honest  Miner.  179 

Such  persistent  energy  directed  to  any  other  bus- 
iness would  command  success  ;  but  will  it  in  pros- 
pecting? That  depends.  If  he  fails  in  finding 
a  good  thing  (say  a  lode  worth  a  million  or  so)  in 
a  given  district,  it  does  not  shake  his  steadfast 
confidence.  He  makes  a  new  deal,  and  begins 
again,  for  he  "  is  bound  to  spot  the  treasure." 

The  claim-stake  is  usually  a  pine  board,  marked 
with  certain  inscriptions  in  pencil,  which  ooze 
from  within  glazes  over  and  makes  indelible. 
Pleasant  and  consoling  to  him  is  it  to  know  that 
no  wise  man  from  the  East — no  scientist,  no  geol- 
ogist— has  ever  found  a  valuable  mine.  "  Them 
literary  fellows  have  to  take  a  back  seat "  when  it 
comes  to  locating  a  claim.  Luck,  chance,  acci- 
dent, and  the  prospector  are  the  powers  to  be 
depended  upon  then.  But  when  he  does  strike 
the  big  lead,  and  the  crumbly  ore,  with  its  glitter- 
ing white-and-yellow  streakings,  is  reported  inex- 
haustable,  then  these  wholesome  adages  floor  the 
honest  miner.  A  man  cannot  see  very  far  under- 
ground. It  takes  a  mine  to  work  a  mine.  Luck 
may  find  the  lead,  but  science  molds  the  silver 
brick  ;  and  to  these  precious  truths  are  added  the 
proverb  so  dear  to  gentlemen  of  the  profession  of 
the  renowned  Oakhurst :  "  There's  nothing  cer- 
tain about  luck,  except  that  it's  bound  to  change." 

The  old  Spaniards  had  the  national  love  of  gam- 
bling— the  gambler's  unreasoning  hope  and  his 
blind  belief  in  luck.  If  Fortune  frowned  to-day, 
she  would  brightly  smile  across  the  green  cloth 
to-morrow.  If  gold  is  not  in  this  glittering,  cheat- 
ing mica,  it  is  hidden  elsewhere,  awaiting  him 
who  is  bold  enough  to  risk  the  chances  of  win- 
ning. The  same  trait  is  deeply  marked  in  the 
American  of  our  generation.  Mining  is  a  busi- 
ness to  which  all  other  occupations  are  dull  and 
tame.  The  lumps  of  soft,  blue-looking  rock,  not 
much  harder  than  clay,  streaked  and  spangled 


180  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

with  shining  threads,  are  dear  to  the  American 
as  they  were  to  the  Castilian  heart  and  eye. 

A  man  undertaking  a  scheme  in  which  the 
odds  are  five  hundred  to  one  against  success 
might  be  considered  a  simpleton  elsewhere  ;  but 
not  so  on  the  frontier.  Thousands,  armed  with 
pretended  stoicism,  fevered  with  anxiety,  rush 
West,  "  to  look  into  mines  a  little,"  dig  deep,  and 
find  at  the  bottom  of  the  shaft  what  the  gods  of 
Olympus  sent  as  underlying  all  the  ills — Hope. 

It  is  as  certain  as  the  sun  rises  and  sets  that  the 
gambling  and  not  the  commercial  instinct  pre- 
dominates in  mining  transactions.  The  fascina- 
tion is  in  the  hazard.  The  spell,  so  binding 
usually,  is  not  of  avarice,  but  lies  in  that  delicious, 
feverish,  intoxicating  charm  of  chance.  To  bor- 
row the  words  of  one  who  has  tried  it :  "  There 
is  a  delight  in  its  agony,  a  sweetness  in  its  insan- 
ity, a  drunken,  glorious  intensity  of  sensation  in 
its  limitless  swing  between  a  prince's  treasures 
and  a  beggar's  death,  which  lend  life  a  sense 
never  known  before  ;  rarely,  indeed,  once  tasted, 
ever  abandoned." 


CHAPTER  XX 

THE  ASSAYERS. 

A  CERTAIN  room  in  El  Palacio  is  devoted  to 
assaying  the  precious  ores.  Its  blackened, 
time-stained  rafters  look  as  though  they  might 
fall  any  moment;  but  believers  in  luck  rest  in 
calm  assurance  that  the  catastrophe  will  not  occur 
in  their  time.  Vainly  is  the  tale  told  how  the 
very  day  Governor  Merriwether  took  possession 
of  the  Palace,  to  assume  the  executive  duties  of 
the  territory,  the  roof  of  the  room  in  which  he 


The  Assay ers.  181 

had  once  been  a  prisoner  fell  in.  Nobody  scares 
at  that  old  story  now.  The  slanting  beam  over- 
head will  not  drop  till  we  are  out  of  the  way; 
the  crumbling  adobes  will  hold  together  awhile 
yet.  No  use  running  till  you  are  hurt.  There 
is  too  much  actual  danger  about  us  to  allow  the 
sensationalist  a  chance  to  waken  fears. 

The  mud  walls  of  the  room  I  speak  of  were 
once  papered;  but  the  hanging  has  flaked  off,  re- 
vealing the  brown  ground,  making  splotches  here 
and  there,  like  a  disease.  Cobwebs  of  pre-historic 
antiquity  hang  in  lines,  like  ropes  of  dirty  rags. 
The  one  north  window  is  obscured  by  dust  and 
fly-specks,  the  dull  panes  and  deep  walls  letting 
in  a  dim  and  not  religious  light.  It  was  formerly 
a  bedroom,  I  believe.  Of  the  living  things  which 
still  may  burrow  in  the  walls,  as  the  French 
women  say,  I  beseech  you  to  suppose  them. 
The  bare  floor  is  dusty  and  gritty  with  sand.  In 
one  corner  is  a  barrel  of  charcoal ;  beside  it  pine 
kindling  and  old  newspapers.  A  long  pine  table 
holds  the  assayer's  tools — the  many  contrivances 
necessary  to  his  vocation.  Scales  that  weigh 
with  the  delicate  nicety  of  Portia's,  blo\v-pipes, 
bottles  of  acids,  mortar  and  pestles,  little  hammers, 
and  sieves,  beside  waiting  specimens,  clone  up  in 
muslin,  carefully  separated  and  labeled.  Such 
stones  come  in  every  mail,  every  train,  every 
ambulance,  every  pocket.  "Blossom  rocks" 
adorn  window-sill  and  mantelpiece,  street-corners 
and  counters,  serve  as  paper-weights  and  door- 
props,  and  are  a  stumbling-block  and  rock  of 
offense  along  the  sidewalks. 

I  am  not  here  to  talk  of  chlorides,  pyrites, 
sulphurets,  silica,  and  manganese ;  but  only  to 
remark,  en  passant,  that  free  gold  and  ruby  silver 
are  pretty  terms — very  pretty,  indeed — and  easily 
understood  by  any  lady  in  the  land. 

At  this  table  presides  the  refiner  and  purifier 


1 82  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

of  silver — the  Man  of  Destiny.  It  may  be  a 
Freiburg  professor,  with  flowing  beard  and  a 
name  in  harsh  discord  with  the  mellifluous  Spanish 
titles,  or  a  graduate  of  a  New  York  school  of 
mines.  No  matter.  He  understands  his  business 
and  on  his  fiat  hang  hopes  high  as  the  sky,  for  to 
him  are  submitted  samples  of  raw  ores  believed 
valuable,  and  now  comes  the  question  :  Is  the 
deposit  represented  rich  enough  to  justify  deep 
digging— in  other  words,  to  make  a  mine  of? 
The  honest  miner's  flush  of  hope  and  sinking  of 
fear  are  comparable  only  to  the  tremor  of  the 
quivering  aspirant  for  literary  fame,  who,  with 
darling  MS.  in  hand,  respectfully  addresses  the 
torturer,  and  withdraws  to  await  his  doom. 

The  small,  square  furnace  glows  with  fervent 
heat,  and  the  room  is  suffocating.  With,  beaded 
forehead  and  dripping  chin,  the  assayer  weighs, 
pulverizes,  sifts  the  fine  dust  in  the  cupels,  to 
undergo  the  only  sure  test,  the  trial  by  fire.  His 
hidden  power  revives  the  old  romantic  ideas  of 
scholars,  to  whom  the  ancient  and  secret  science 
of  alchemy  was  a  religion,  part  of  the  sublime, 
cabalistic  wisdom  revealed  unto  Adam,  to  console 
him  for  the  loss  of  Paradise ;  for  which  study 
philosophers  shut  themselves  up  to  lifelong  toil 
in  cells  and  caves.  He  is  of  the  order  of  mystics, 
who  grew  lean  and  pale  pondering  brass-bound 
volumes  of  wicked-looking  hieroglyphs;  who 
understood  the  charm  of  the  burning  belt  and 
the  ciphered  girdle.  He  deals  with  strange 
crucibles  and  subtle  compounds;  by  a  wizard 
spell  masters  the  forces  of  the  earth,  the 
transmutation  of  metals,  and  by  magic  numbers 
discovers  the  golden  secrets  of  Nature.  While 
the  cabala  combination  is  being  applied,  that 
laboratory  is  the  center  of  many  hopes. 

How  often,  ah!  how  often  does  it  prove  the 
gold  is  dull  lead,  the  silver  is  become  dross.  The 


The  Assay  ers.  183 

waiting  miner  is  "  not  in  harmonization  with  his 
environments."  He  hovers  about  the  Palace, 
trying  to  cover  his  eager  anxiety  under  the 
studied  stoicism  of  the  frontiersman.  Sometimes 
the  sun  looks  down  upon  him,  as  it  rises,  and 
finds  him  a  patient  watcher,  waiting  for  the  cool- 
ing of  the  metal.  He  has  silently  outwatched  the 
stars,  only  to  learn  that  specimens  believed  very 
rich  (his  darling  promises)  are  worthless — not  a 
speck,  not  a  pinhead  of  precious  mineral  to  be 
seen  in  a  dozen  cupels.  What  he  held  was  so 
much  fairy  gold  that  turns  to  dust  and  dross. 

The  gold-seeker,  in  the  first  chill  of  disappoint- 
ment, refuses  to  credit  the  report ;  but  the  re- 
finer's furnace  has  spoken  with  tongues  of  fire. 
There  is  the  evidence  of  his  own  senses ;  he  can- 
not doubt  the  testimony.  He  quickly  recovers 
his  stolid  composure,  takes  a  square  meal,  pos- 
sibly a  square  drink,  and,  led  by  the  spirit  of  un- 
rest, is  ready  to  face  the  inevitable  hardships  of 
another  long  search  for  rich  leads. 

He  rises,  after  an  adverse  stroke  of  fate,  buoy- 
ant as  ever  with  irrepressible  hope — as  Dr.  John- 
son says  of  second  marriages,  "the  triumph  of 
hope  over  experience."  In  the  morning  the  dis- 
appointment seems  like  something  belonging  to 
the  vanished  night.  Five,  eight,  ten  years  may 
have  brought  nothing  but  anxiety,  excitement, 
ill-luck;  but  his  superior  sagacity  and  daring 
must  win  at  last. 

Away  he  goes,  with  burro  and  "pard,"  off  on 
another  prospecting  tour,  across  unmeasured 
wastes  of  sand,  under  a  brassy  sky,  over  alkali 
plains,  lava-beds,  and  waterless  pas  fur  as,  which 
lead  to  springs  that  may  be  poison. 

A  childish  credulity  weakens  the  judgment  of 
the  honest  miner.  He  accepts  without  reserve 
the  pleasing  myths  which  form  a  sort  of  legend- 
ary history ;  the  unwritten  annals  of  gold  and 


1 84  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

silver-bearing  mountains.  Airy  fables,  poetic 
traditions  are  received  as  authentic  records. 
There  are  delightful  touches  in  these  tales,  with 
which  I  should  love  to  embellish  and  enrich  my 
page  ;  but  not  to-day.  They  belong  to  the  mys- 
teries and  subtleties  known  only  to  the  elect — 
the  chosen  few  who  see  behind  the  cloud  spanned 
with  promise,  iris-hued  and  glittering,  the  prize 
awaiting  the  venturesome  Argonaut. 

The  pay-streak  is  possibly  in  a  vega  of  sea- 
like  vastness  and  level ;  but  more  likely  in  the 
stony  mountain  heart,  threaded  by  shining  lines, 
as  the  crimson  veins  warm  ours.  Wherever  it  is, 
he  is  the  man  to  strike  it.  And  this  conviction 
abides  with  him,  a  constant  happiness,  as  he  tra- 
verses the  length  and  breadth  of  the  mineral 
region. 

Do  you  laugh  at  his  fond  delusions  ? 

The  mania  for  precious  metals  is  not  a  modern 
craze.  It  is  older  than  the  Pyramids. 

Is  he  chasing  a  chimera  ? 

No,  dear  reader,  he  is  feeling  his  way  in  the 
checkered  path  which  all  men  at  some  period  of 
their  lives  have  sought  ever  since  the  first  pros- 
pector groped  along  the  strand  down  by  the 
storied  Euphrates,  that  dim  and  shadowy  river, 
winding  between  myth  and  history,  which  waters 
the  old,  old  land  Havilah,  where  there  is  gold. 

If  a  cold-blooded  newcomer  advises  the  hon- 
est miner  to  settle  down  to  some  good,  steady, 
legitimate  business,  he  rejects  the  idea  with 
lofty  scorn.  That  is  well  enough  for  the  cautious 
idiot,  who  does  not  know  a  true  fissure -vein  when 
he  sees  it.  The  every-day  trades,  the  tame, 
beaten  paths  are  not  in  the  prospector's  line  of 
march.  He  is  for  the  short  cut  to  fortune. 
Familiar  with  dangers,  there  is  one  foe  he  can- 
not fight.  In  lone  hillsides  and  desolate  canons 
there  is  lying  in  wait  for  him  an  enemy  more 


The  Assayers.  185 

deadly  than  the  skulking  Apache — a  peculiar 
form  of  intermittent  fever,  called  mountain  fever. 
It  lurks  in  the  air,  ready  to  lift  the  dread  cloud 
hiding  the  mystery  which  forever  enshrouds  the 
Unseen  World. 

The  human  race  is  nomadic,  and  the  old  Aryan 
blood  is  strong,  and  crops  out  on  the  vegas  of 
the  Rocky  Mountains  clearly  as  on  the  arid  plains 
of  Mesopotamia.  To  be  sure,  in  Adam  we  are 
all  one,  and  he  was  a  quiet  citizen  of  the  world. 
In  Noah  we  are  all  three,  and  after  the  Deluge — 
but  this  is  getting  into  deep  water. 

Revenons.  Occasionally  it  happens  that  a 
sample  of  ore,  "the  queer-looking  stuff"  on 
which  moderate  expectation  is  based,  is  brought 
out  of  the  furnace,  and  the  button  in  the  cupel  is 
not  silver,  but  a  lump  of  pure  gold.  O  raptur- 
ous moment  known  to  the  few,  the  beloved  chil- 
dren of  Fate !  O  day  to  be  remembered  under 
the  coffin-lid !  The  owner  of  such  returns  (not 
larger  than  a  pea)  treads  on  air.  He  tries  to 
hide  his  exultation  ;  but  the  secret  will  out.  He 
plans  ;  he  builds.  He  is  going  to  sail  the  seas  ; 
to  start  before  many  days  to  hear  the  syrens  of 
the  Mediterranean  ;  to  visit  the  abiding-places  of 
poetry  and  history,  the  lands  of  undying  sum- 
mer ;  to  see  the  kingdoms  of  the  earth  and  the 
glory  of  them.  And  well  may  he  dream  dreams 
and  see  visions !  Money  is  but  another  name  for 
freedom.  He  who  holds  it  has  all  the  world  be- 
fore him  where  to  choose  his  place  of  rest. 

My  reader,  familiar  with  "  The  Last  of  the 
Barons,"  may  remember  the  picture  of  Adam 
Warner  endeavoring  to  turn  copper  into  gold. 
In  the  solitude  genius  everywhere  creates  for  it- 
self, by  night  and  by  day,  hanging  over  the  burn- 
ing Eureka,  stinting  himself  and  child  to  feed 
the  devouring  furnace,  asking  no  sympathy  in  his 
lonely  chamber,  living  apart  with  his  works  and 


1 86  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

fancies,  like  a  god  amidst  his  creations,  and  com- 
ing very  near  the  grand  discovery  concealed  for 
a  later  generation  to  penetrate.  The  fascination 
of  mining  is  what  those  elder  sages  experienced 
in  a  lifelong  witchery  over  minds  bent  to  the 
study  of  alchemy.  What  wonder  men  were  de- 
voted to  a  pursuit,  in  which  even  Bacon  and 
Newton  wasted  precious  hours,  which  promised 
results  so  august?  Besides  costly  chemicals, 
there  were  thrown  into  the  crucibles  youth, 
health,  hope,  love,  yes,  life  itself,  to  vanish  as 
vapor,  slowly,  slowly,  surely,  surely. 

The  worst  thing  about  mining,  as  formerly 
about  alchemy,  is  that  it  allures  on  its  victims  to 
destruction.  One  gets  near  and  ever  nearer 
the  object ;  so  trifling  a  sum  additional  will  com- 
plete the  work  and  secure  the  promise.  Time, 
toil,  expensive  appliances  are  demanded;  but  the 
glorious  result  justifies  all  these,  and  many 
another  risk  more  fearful. 

Nature  has  done  in  the  Rocky  Mountains  pre- 
cisely what  the  ancient  sages  tried  to  do.  Here 
the  last  secret  combination  has  produced  the 
medium ;  the  striking  hammer  is  smiting  the 
rocks  ;  in  the  death-like  stillness  of  remote  soli- 
tudes the  blow  reverbates,  and  at  its  compelling 
stroke  the  earth  opens,  and  lo  !  the  philosopher's 
stone  is  discovered.  Prospero's  wand  was  not 
mightier. 

At  night  the  clear,  red  glow  of  the  furnace 
reddens  the  walls  of  the  assayer's  room,  coats 
with  bright  gilding  gloomy  rafters  overhead,  and 
lends  a  sickly  light  to  the  flickering  flame  of  the 
coal-oil  lamp.  Then  the  place  is  suggestive  of  the 
great  centre  of  the  earth,  where  doomed  souls  go 
wandering  up  and  down  in  a  joyless,  endless 
wrestling  with  fire.  The  silent  men  are  like  dis- 
mal ghosts.  If  they  speak,  it  is  in  repressed 
tones.  Their  low  voices,  the  obscurity  of  the 


The  Assay ers.  187 

room,  the  intense  heat,  the  air  of  secrecy  and 
mystery  give  the  feeling  that  some  agony  is  con- 
ducting— a  battle,  a  fire,  a  drama  involving  high 
interests.  The  mighty  cause  is  a  tragedy ;  pos- 
sibly a  crime. 

Sometimes  a  woman,  a  girlish  shape,  looks  in 
with  innocent  eyes,  as  though  she  thought  the 
assayer  in  woeful  peril.  She  flits  away  like  a 
spirit  blest,  wandering  from  the  cool,  sweet  fields 
Elysian,  to  pity  for  one  moment  the  sad  dwellers 
in  the  near  purgatory. 

Souls  in  torment  are  here,  in  fact,  when  "  speci- 
mens" on  which  star-high  hopes  were  grounded 
prove  to  be  fire-clay  and  galena,  and  the  long, 
slow  dream  is  as  a  vision  of  the  night. 

The  conduct  of  some  "  miner  men,"  after  a 
claim  has  been  located,  and  the  one  hundred 
dollars'  worth  of  work  which  the  law  exacts  is 
done,  is  a  study.  In  this  age  of  doubt  and  ques- 
tion, their  unwavering  faith  gives  us  fresh  confi- 
dence in  skeptical,  sorely-tried  human  nature. 
They  gaze  into  narrow  prospect-holes,  about  the 
size  of  a  seventy-five  barrel  cistern,  with  a  depth 
of  trust,  an  immovable  resting  on  the  promise  in 
the  future  comparable  with  nothing  I  know, 
except  the  serene  complacency  of  the  setting  hen. 
She  feels  the  stir  of  life  beneath  her  brooding 
wings,  and  he  has  visions 


-"impalpable  and  unperceived 


Of  other's  sight." 

You  see  only  a  hole  in  the  ground  ;  a  shallow 
cistern  which  holds  no  water.  Nature  has  re- 
vealed her  secrets  to  him,  as  she  does  not  to  the 
unbeliever.  Hence  his  robust  faith. 

From  that  prospect-hole  riches  will  roll  up  by 
the  bucketful. 

"  How  will  they  get  up  ?''  asks  the  uninspired 
tourist,  heartlessly. 

Honest  miner,  teetering  a  scrap  of  galena  on 


1 88  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

his  forefinger,  stares  steadily  at  the  faint 
mountain-line  and  murmurs:  "  Oh  !  I  must  bide 
my  time.  One  of  these  days  capital  will  come 
along — capital  will  come  along — come  along — 
along." 

It  must  be  admitted  that  capital  is  often  a  good 
while  on  the  road.  This  hour,  scores  about  us 
are  prospecting,  opening  abandoned  workings, 
following  the  ancient  Tegua-Spanish  traces,  with 
hopeful  hearts.  They  are  enchanters.  Hear 
them  talk,  and  you  behold  the  beauty  of  which 
they  dream.  They  have  neither  crucibles  nor 
carpet,  nor  do  they  pour  ink  in  your  palm,  as 
Hassan  did ;  yet  are  they  prophets  and  seers,  and 
their  visions  all  foreshow  another  Leadville. 

The  Lodestone  Rocks  are  not  far  off.  Come 
not  near,  unless  you  are  ready  to  be  dashed 
against  them. 

Only  fifty  dollars  laid  out  in  work,  and  a  mine 
possibly  worth  thousands.  Quien  sabe?  "Who 
knows  ?"  "  Who  knows  ?  " 

Taking  a  stern  Methodist  view  of  the  business 
as  now  proceeding  in  the  territories,  I  should  call 
mining  a  game  of  chance — exciting,  fascinating, 
bewildering — which  defrauds  no  one  but  your- 
self. 


CHAPTER   XXI. 

THE    RUBY   SILVER    MINE. A    TRUE   STORY. 

MINING  atmospheres  are  rife  with  stories,  mar- 
velous, startling,  that  would  be  incredible,  did 
we  not  know  it  is  always  the  incredible  which 
happens.  Of  the  many  tales  floating  about  Santa 
Fe,  I  give  one  to  you,  beloved,  which  shows  how 
strangely  things  come  round  in  this  round  world 
Of  ours, 


The  Ruby  Silver  Mines.— A   True  Story.       189 

The  patient  reader  who  has  graciously  followed 
my  rambling,  scrambling  steps  through  New 
Mexico  may  possibly  remember  that  a  large 
portion  of  the  MSS.  comprising  the  archives  of 
the  territory,  was  sold  as  waste  paper  and  found 
way  into  the  various  shops  of  the  city.  Santa 
Fe  being  the  largest  town  and  commercial  center 
of  New  Mexico,  from  it  they  were  widely  dis- 
persed in  every  direction,  and  on  this  accidental 
scattering  of  leaves  hangs  my  story  and  a  fortune. 

One  night  in  the  Autumn  of  1879  I  sat  boring 
myself  into  inanity  over  the  Pharos  of  the  Occi- 
dent (which  is  a  misnomer,  the  newspaper  being 
anything  but  light  reading),  when  a  visitor  was 
announced. 

"  Me  parece  un  miner o"  said  Dolores  Lucia 
Marina  Feliciana  Flores. 

I  was  pleased  at  the  thought  of  a  visitor,  even 
on  business,  and,  in  dread  of  being  left  alone  with 
The  Pharos,  insisted  el  minero  should  not  be 
interviewed  in  the  Assay  Office,  but  here.  The 
«•  Palace  ''  halls  are  neither  long  nor  lofty,  being 
the  length  of  two  moderate  rooms  on  the  ground 
floor,  and  in  a  few  minutes  there  stood  in  the 
deep  doorway  a  figure,  as  revealed  by  the  shaded 
student's  lamp,  unmistakably  that  of  a  miner. 
His  face  was  sunburnt  to  a  vermeil  red  and  made 
prematurely  old  by  exposure.  Wrinkled  by  dry- 
ing wind  and  pitiless  sunbeat,  his  appearance  was 
weather-worn,  showing  days  of  wanderings  with- 
out shelter  and  lodgings  on  the  cold,  cold  ground. 

The  contagion  of  good  manners  is  a  happy 
thing.  In  Spanish-speaking  countries,  though 
all  else  be  lacking,  there  is  ever  the  most 
exquisite  politeness,  and  the  man  removed  his 
slouch  of  a  hat  with  a  profound  and  sweeping 
bow.  His  uncovered  head  was  thatched  with  a 
thick  shock  of  carrot-colored  locks,  which  are 
the  inheritance  of  "  the  sandy  complected,",  to 


IQO  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

speak  after  the  manner  of  the  poke-berry  districts 
of  our  own  Indiana.  The  strip  of  forehead 
shaded  by  his  hat  was  dotted  with  large,  asser- 
tive freckles,  which  in  the  exposed  portion  of  his 
face  were  "  in  one  red  burial  blent/'  He  closed 
the  door  carefully  and,  with  an  air  of  secrecy, 
dropped  his  voice  to  a  certain  loud  whisper, 
peculiar  to  sick-rooms  and  miners  in  confidence, 
and  bis  whisper  gradually  sank  to  the  ledger 
lines  below,  as  he  made  his  report ;  for,  though 
rather  untimely,  his  call  was  not  unexpected. 

I  spread  The  Pharos  on  my  table,  and  he 
slowly  proceeded  to  unload  his  pockets  and  his 
red  handkerchief,  and  empty  on  the  paper 
various  ores,  kept  separate,  tied  in  rags  and 
marked.  To  him  they  represented  all  precious 
things,  besides  gold  and  silver ;  to  me  they 
appeared  formless,  jagged  lumps  of  dull-looking 
stone. 

The  story  of  the  Argonaut  was  long — too  long 
for  any  but  a  frontiersman,  with  plenty  of  leisure 
to  speak  and  to  hear — and  was  given  in  the  style 
of  oratory  perfected  by  the  Cousin  of  Sally  Dil- 
lard. 

He  could  not  sit  still,  but  started  every  few 
minutes,  as  at  a  calling  voice,  and  strode  hur- 
riedly up  and  down  the  room,  restless,  eager, 
nervous,  like  one  who,  after  long  and  exhaustive 
strain,  suddenly  slackens  the  tension.  With  the 
utmost  minuteness  he  gave  the  history  and 
described  the  locality  of  each  particular  sample, 
and  tied  them  again,  one  by  one,  each  in  its  own 
grimy  cloth  and  label.  This  done,  he  hesitated, 
cleared  his  throat,  rose  from  his  chair,  apologized 
for  trespassing  upon  our  valuable  time  (as  though 
we  had  anything  but  time),  opened  the  door, 
looked  up  and  down  the  hall,  as  if  he  feared 
some  ear  was  airing  at  the  key-hole.  Satisfied 
with  the  reconnaissance,  he  closed  it  again  and 


The  Ruby  Silver  Mines. — A  True  Story.       191 

with  stealthy  step  returned  to  the  table.  Evi- 
dently two  hours  of  rigmarole  had  failed  to  free 
his  soul.  There  was  something  still  unsaid.  We 
silently  awaited  the  revelation.  "  There  is  one 
specimen  left,"  he  began,  doubtfully,  and  looked 
at  me  much  as  to  say  :  Can  a  woman  keep  or  be 
trusted  with  a  secret?  Perhaps  he  read 
assurance  in  my  face,  for  he  fumbled  in  his  vest 
(from  the  Semitic  shop  hard  by,  painfully  new 
and  pathetically  cheap),  and  out  of  its  deepest 
corner  produced  a  little  bag  of  buckskin,  tied  with 
a  leather  string.  He  untied  it  with  nervous 
haste,  and  his  wistful  light  blue  eyes,  burned  in 
deep  hollows  with  miner's  fever,  brightened  as  he 
spoke,  scarcely  above  his  breath,  in  an  awe-inspir- 
ing whisper  :  "  Here  we  air.  Here's  the  richest 
thing  yet."  Shaking  the  bag,  there  dropped  into 
the  palm  of  his  left  hand  a  reddish  purple  stone, 
without  streakings  or  glitter.  "  Ruby  silver,"  he 
said,  softly.  "  Ruby  silver,  and  plenty  of  it. 
There's  no  end  to  the  lead." 

He  reached  it  to  me  tenderly,  as  though  it 
could  break  at  a  touch.  I  did  as  was  expected 
of  me — scraped  the  fragment  of  mineral  with 
a  pen-knife,  peered  at  it  through  the  magni- 
fying glass,  hefted  it  on  my  forefinger,  and  made 
the  sagacious  observation :  "  It  looks  well.  I 
should  say  a  very  rich  specimen." 

"  It's  from  the  Canon  de  los  Angelos,"  said  the 
miner. 

I  remembered  if  as  a  dismal  gorge,  torn  up 
and  riddled  by  volcanic  action,  a  blasted  wilder- 
ness of  gashed  and  riven  stone  peaks,  bearing 
aloft  gnarled  and  twisted  firs,  their  utmost  sum- 
mits a  region  of  ice,  lifted  above  the  limit  of 
life.  The  silence  unbroken  but  by  the  howl  of 
wild  beasts  and  the  war-whoop  of  the  savage ; 
where  only  fresh  mountain-heaps  of  piied-up 
lavas,  marking  the  throes  of  the  earthquake,  vary 


192  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

the  forbidding  gloom  which  baffles  the  traveler, 
entering  it  with  a  sense  of  approaching  the  Valley 
of  the  Shadow  of  Death.  As  soon  expect  water 
in  desert- sand  as  gold  in  that  lava-flood,  silver  in 
those  melted  rocks ! 

"  How  did  you  come  to  prospect  in  that  dread- 
ful canon  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  The  strangest  thing  in  the  world,"  said  the 
miner,  "how  I  first  lighted  on  it.  I  bought  a 
plug  of  tobacco  (it  was  six  years  ago),  and  car- 
ried it  home  in  a  piece  of  an  old  letter,  dated 
sixteen  hundred  and  something.  I  disremember 
the  year.  It  was  writ  on  thick  yellow  paper,  to 
one  of  the  Spanish  governors,  when  Arizona  and 
New  Mexico  was  one.  My  wife  was  a-studyin* 
Spanish  (you  can't  git  along  here  without  some), 
and  she  brought  the  dictionary  to  bear  and  spelt 
the  thing  out.  It  told  about  a  rich  lead  in  the 
Canon  de  los  Angelos ;  but  the  paper  was  tore 
off  in  the  very  place  I  most  wanted,  so  I  couldn't 
exactly  spot  it.  For  nigh  onto  five  years  I've 
prospected.  I've  hunted  off  and  on,  in  hot  and 
cold,  wet  and  dry.  I've  been  hungry  and 
thirsty.  I've  scorched  and  I've  froze.  Oncet  I 
was  nearly  drowned  by  a  sudden  rise  at  night, 
when  I  camped  in  an  array  a.  One  winter  I  was 
snow-blind.  Many  and  many's  the  week  I've 
heard  no  voice,  nothing  but  the  yelp  of  the  coyote 
and  the  wind  among  the  pines.  Many  and  many 
a  time  I've  smelt  the  grizzlies;  but,  as  luck 
would  have  it,  I  never  run  onto  one.  A  lion  or 
a  panther  will  run  when  he's  hurt  and  roar ;  but 
a  grizzly  doesn't,  and,  after  bein'  hit,  shot 
through  the  heart,  instead  of  dyin',  he  lives  long 
enough  to  chaw  up  the  hunter." 

Dear  reader,  beware  of  starting  the  Rocky 
Mountaineer  on  bear  stories.  You  will  feel  the 
daisies  growing  over  you  before  he  slackens  the 
strain  of  his  eloquence. 


The  Ruby  Silver  Mine.— A   True  Story.        193 

"  Did  you  spend  all  these  six  years  in  the 
Canon  ?  "  I  inquired,  by  way  of  bringing  the 
prospector  back  to  the  subject  in  hand. 

"  Oh  !  no.  By  spells  I  went  at  other  bizness  ; 
but  the  idee  of  a  fortune  a-waitin'  for  me  in  Los 
Angelos,  and  that  old  Spanish  letter  made  me 
sour  on  everything.  You  know  it  is  in  Valencia 
County." 

I  did  not,  but  made  an  amiable  effort  to  look 
as  though  I  did. 

"  There's  curious  old  things  down  there  in 
them  old  lava-beds." 

"  What  things  ?  "  I  asked,  for  the  first  time 
rousing  to  any  interest,  for  my  antiquarian  blood 
began  to  stir. 

"  Heaps  of  ruins,  cities,  ragged  walls,  sixty 
feet  high  and  ten  feet  thick,  scattered  over  miles 
and  miles.  The  rafters  air  charred  with  the 
banked-up  fire  of  the  volcano ;  but  I  see  one 
beam  as  sound  as  the  day  it  was  laid  up." 

"  And  how  did  the  timber  appear  ?  " 

"  Twas  pinon,  squared  with  a  stone  hatchet  or 
hammer  and  covered  with  markings — Indian 
signs,  maybe — furrowed  with  a  stone  gouge. 
Then  there  was  a  drawin'  of  the  sun,  and  a  sort 
of  a  neye  ;  the  lava  had  buried  deep,  and  people 
who  like  old  potteries  can  get  a  wagon-load 
there.  About  four  feet  down  I  struck  a  room, 
about  ten  feet  square,  where  there  was  a  big  fire- 
place ;  and  in  it  was  a  crane,  with  a  clay  hook, 
and  on  the  end  of  the  hook  was  a  bone.  By  the 
side  of  the  fire  was  a  skeleton — the  old  man 
a-watchin'  his  bone  a-roastin'  on  the  hook,  when 
here  comes  the  lava  and  seals  him  up  tight. 
Over  yonder,  at  the  Fonda,  I've  got  his  skull ; 
and  here  "  (he  opened  the  revolver-pocket  this 
time) — "  here's  the  old  fellow's  finger-bone.  I've 
lots  of  the  same  old  arrowheads  and  a  flint 
tomahawk." 


194  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

I  was  greatly  interested  in  the  still  relics  of 
remote  generations  ;  but  we  had  not  reached  the 
mine,  and  the  evening  was  far  spent.  "  These 
were  near  your  ruby  silver  mine  ? ''  I  said,  sug- 
gestively. 

"  Oh !  no.  As  I  was  sayin',  I  found  the  bones 
of  a  dog  close  to  a  spring  of  sweet  water,  and  I 
knowed  then  I  was  a-gettin'  warm.  My  time 
was  pretty  nigh  out.  The  snow  was  so  deep  I 
hid  my  tools,  and  give  up  for  the  winter  and 
hired  out  to  the  freighters.  As  soon  as  winter 
broke  I  lit  out  one  moonshiny  night.  Somehow 
the  prospectors  in  Santa  Fe  got  wind  of  my  moves. 
I  don't  know  how,  unless  I  told  in  my  sleep,  for 
I  kept  dumb  as  the  dead,  and  I  was  afeered 
they'd  track  me.  I  hunted  round  that  Spring  in 
a  ring  of  five  miles.  First,  I  found  the  acequia 
which  kept  the  buried  city  in  water.  I  followed 
it  in  a  blind  lead  for  three-quarters  of  a  mile,  to  a 
broken  dam.  The  trail  to  the  dam  came  next. 
When  I  tell  you  cedars  thick  as  my  body  air 
grovvin'  on  that  trail,  you  have  an  idee  how  long 
it's  been  since  tracks  has  been  made  in  it." 

Just  there  I  think  the  prospector  drew  on  his 
imagination  for  his  facts  ;  but  his  audience  held 
their  peace,  and  he  continued  : 

"  It  was  a  mighty  poor  zigzag  ;  but  it  led  to 
smelters." 

"  To  smelters  ! "  we  both  exclaimed,  in  a 
breath  ;  then  followed  a  thrilling  pause.  The 
prospector  had  reached  his  climax,  and  he 
walked  up  and  down  the  floor  excitedly,  tossing 
the  ruby  silver  back  and  forth  in  his  hands,  like 
the  hands  of  Esau. 

"To  old  smelters  !  "  he  repeated,  with  empha- 
sis. He  struck  the  Colossus-of-Rhodes  pose  on 
the  wolf-skin  rug  and  continued : 

"  They  was  made  of  adobes,  and  was  raised 
some  twenty  foot  above  the  ground,  and  had  saw 


The  Ruby  Silver  Mine. — A   True  Story.       195 

hard  service.  I  prowled  around  there  a  full 
month,  hackin'  and  diggin'  alone ;  for  I  dassent 
tell  anybody  but  a  Pueblo  Indian,  and  threatened 
to  kill  him  if  he  ever  made  sign  to  white  man. 
It  was  my  last  throw.  I  was  hard  up.  My  old 
pard  was  dead,  give  out  with  rheumatism.  My 
wife  had  went  back  to  the  States.  My  credit 
(never  anything  to  brag  on)  went  after  my  wife  " 
(he  smiled,  for  the  first  time),  "and  I  see  plain 
luck  must  come  soon  or  never ;  but  I  never  lost 
my  grip.  I  knowed  I  was  a-gittin'  warm.  There's 
no  sign  like  the  buried  towns.  It's  certain  indi- 
cation of  diggin's  not  far  off.  It's  the  rule  all 
over  the  territories.  I  lived  on  venison,  venison, 
till  it  was  worse  than  old  mutton.  About  three 
mile  away  was  a  lake,  where  I  scooped  up  salt 
with  my  hands;  but  venison  and  salt  gets 
monotonous  week  in  and  week  out.  There  was 
plenty  of  charcoal  (had  been  used  by  the  min- 
ers, whoever  they  was),  and  I  made  out  that  the 
dam  led  the  water  of  the  Abo  to  the  works. 
From  the  old  furnaces  I  found  another  over- 
grown trail,  that  run  to  this  mine." 

"  What  sort  of  mine  is  it  ?  " 

"  One  of  the  covered-up  ones.  It's  certain  hun- 
dreds of  years  old,  buried  under  felled  timber. 
Some  of  it  had  rooted.  I  was  a  month  gettin' 
through,  and  it  took  a  sharp  eye  to  sight  it." 
The  speaker  modestly  blinked  the  milky  orbs 
under  their  pink  lashes,  and  continued  :  "  The 
shaft  is  eighty  feet  deep  or  more,  walled  up  with 
pine,  and  drifts  runnin'  to  the  right  and  left  a 
hundred  feet  or  so.  I've  set  my  stakes  and  the 
papers  is  all  made  out.  It's  mine,  and  no  divide, 
and  not  a  soul  on  earth  knows  about  it  except 
you  two  and  me." 

I  have  seen  so  many  ruined  prospectors  hunt- 
ing mines  that  are  nothing  but  myths,  it  was 


796  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

cheering  to  learn  there  could  be  no  mistake  about 
this  discovery. 

"  You  have  fairly  earned  all  you  have  found," 
I  said,  in  sympathy. 

"  Gracias,  SeHora"  said  the  rich  man,  dramat- 
ically waving  the  Esau  hand,  evidently  enjoying 
his  Spanish. 

"You  see  this  specimen  will  run  twelve  hun- 
dred to  the  ton,  and  there's  no  end  to  the  lead." 
He  teetered  the  stone  on  his  trembling  forefinger. 
«'  I've  had  a  hard  time  !  My  wife  never  got  done 
mournin'  she  ever  spelt  out  the  old  letter.  She'll 
feel  better  now.  I've  struck  it,  and  I  guess  I've 
struck  it  rich." 

And  he  had.  With  a  farewell  toss  up  of  the 
ruby  silver  specimen,  till  it  struck  the  muslin 
ceiling  overhead,  the  fortunate  man,  haggard 
and  shaken,  yet  hilarious,  took  his  leave. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

THE   RUBY   SILVER   MINE. (Continued?) 

Six  months  later,  in  the  shade  of  a  light  um- 
brella, I  sauntered  along  the  beach  at  Cape  May. 
Down  by  the  summer  sea,  where  lovers  walk 
with  lingering  step,  rapt,  heedless  as  the  dead, of 
aught  but  tender  glances  and  soft  words  whisper- 
ed under  the  sound  of  the  surf.  After  the  desert 
silence  and  parching  dryness  of  the  territories,  it 
was  a  deep  pleasure  to  breathe  once  more  the 
salt,  moist  air,  to  hear  the  mighty  monotone,  and 
watch  the  restless  play  of  light  and  color  on 
breakers  rolling  in  from  the  far  Bermudas,  beat- 
ing against  the  shore  like  the  tireless  heart  of 
earth. 

Thinking  upon  nothing  but  simple  enjoyment 


The  Ruby  Silver -Mine. — Continued.  197 

of  earth,  sea,  and  sky,  I  strolled  in  quiet  sym- 
pathy with  the  unknown  crowd,  when  suddenly 
an  open  carriage,  drawn  by  two  horses,  stopped 
near  us.  It  was  light  as  a  wicker  toy,  the  airiest, 
fairiest  thing  manufactured  since  the  night  Cin- 
derella rode  to  the  ball.  So  slight  in  construction 
one  might  think  it  would  scarcely  bear  the 
weight  of  one  person,  had  we  not  seen  that  every 
portion  was  perfectly  wrought.  The  tempered 
steel  and  light  wheels  would  endure  a  severe 
strain.  Ornate  as  burnish  could  make  it,  gilding 
and  varnish  sparkled  in  the  sunlight,  gay  rosette 
and  flying  ribbon  were  not  lacking.  Instead  of 
cloth,  the  lining  was  plaited  violet  satin,  of  ex- 
quisite tint.  I  have  never  seen  so  elegant  a  turn- 
out elsewhere.  The  cushions  were  fit  for  an  em- 
press' laces  and  velvets  to  trail  on,  a  seat  where 
a  king  might  rest  and  keep  the  soil  from  the 
ermine  and  velvet  of  his  coronation  robe. 

The  small  horses  seemed  made  for  the  fairy 
carriage.  They  were  coal-black,  perfectly  match- 
ed, without  a  white  hair  on  them.  Your  corres- 
pondent knows  precious  little  about  horses,  ex- 
cept one  ancient  pony,  which  lost  an  eye  in  a 
pre-historic  raid  on  a  corn-crib ;  but  ignorance 
itself  could  see  these  were  of  no  common  blood. 
The  broad  faces  and  delicate  ears,  the  luminous 
eyes,  soft  as  an  antelope's,  the  arching  necks, 
veiled  with  silken  manes  like  the  fluffy  hair  of 
young  girls,  come  of  no  menial  race,  such  as 
haul  drays  and  drop  on  pavements  in  the  streets. 
The  mettlesome,  high-bred  beauties,  pawing  im- 
patiently with  hoofs  like  polished  ebony,  were 
such  steeds  as  dash  through  the  Ouida  novels  or 
come  home  at  the  masters'  call  under  the  black 
tents,  the  Arab  houses  of  hair.  We  had  started 
for  the  light-house,  three  miles  away,  and  in  the 
dazzle  of  all  that  luxury  and  ease  the  brightness 
went  out  of  the  day.  My  walk  suddenly  became 


198  to  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

hard  and  long.  It  required  the  entire  skill  and 
strength  of  the  liveried  driver  to  manage  the 
reins,  while  the  occupant  within  leaped  nimbly 
out  to  adjust  some  portion  of  the  harness.  He 
was  dressed  in  garments  of  finest  fabric  and  fresh- 
est cut,  in  which  the  tailor  had  missed  the  easy 
fit  so  coveted  by  gentlemen.  A  Pactolian  waters 
chain  streamed  across  his  breast,  and  lightish 
gloves  on  massive  hands  gave  the  wearer  the  as- 
pect of  being  pretty  much  all  gloves.  A  host 
of  idlers  gathered  in  a  moment,  and,  with  them, 
I  stopped  to  admire  the  equipage,  perfect  in 
make  and  ornament,  costly  as  money  can  buy, 
and  then  and  there  broke  the  tenth  command- 
ment. 

Evidently  the  envied  man  felt  fussy  and  grew 
fidgety  under  all  those  staring  eyes.  I  rubbed 
mine  (not  so  young  as  they  once  were),  to  clear 
a  confused,  bewildering  recollection.  Could  it 
be  ?  No  !  impossible !  To  reassure  myself,  I 
looked  toward  the  sea,  then  back  again  to  the  sky, 
the  town.  It  was  no  spirit  of  earth  or  air,  no  cheat 
of  vision  or  brain.  The  territorial  sunburn  had 
faded  from  his  face,  but  lingered  in  the  scorched 
carrot  hair,  and  Rocky  Mountain  wrinkles  are 
not  easily  ironed  out.  Well  I  knew  those  earl)' 
crow's  feet  at  the  corners  of  the  milky  blue  orbs. 
The  owner  of  the  princely  establishment,  with  its 
rare  belongings,  was  none  other  than  our  frontier 
friend,  once  sole  proprietor  of  the  Dives  Mine,  in 
the  Canon  de  los  Angelos,  which  sold  for  eighteen 
hundred  thousand  dollars. 

The  golden  key  opens  many  doors  ;  but  it  takes 
time  and  some  skill  to  fit  it  into  the  lock.  The 
lavender  kids  split  as  the  Dives  miner  hastily 
jerked  them  off,  to  fasten  a  harness-buckle ;  the 
flash  of  a  superb  diamond  ring  followed  the 
movement.  He  threw  the  delicately  tinted  gloves 
on  the  ground,  with  words  more  emphatic  than 


The  Ruby  Silver  Mine.— Continued.  199 

correct,  muttered  under  a  scant  fringe  of  pink 
moustache,  then  turned  a  deprecating,  apologetic 
glance  toward  the  crowd. 

An  instant  the  ancient  prospector  held  me 
with  his  glittering  eye.  It  said,  plainly  as 
whisper  in  my  ear :  I  beg  you  do  not  tell  on  me. 

I  did  not.  He  hurried  back  to  his  place.  The 
Esau  hand,  with  its  blazing  diamond,  closed  the 
door  with  a  heavy  slam.  It  did  not  hold.  He 
banged  it  again,  and  yet  once  more,  growing  very 
red  in  the  face,  before  he  could  lean  away  from  our 
gaze  back  on  the  violet  cushions.  From  that 
soft  recess  he  called  loudly  to  the  driver  to  "  git." 
There  were  a  few  significant  nods  as  the  night- 
black  steeds  sped  with  swift  grace  over  the  wet 
beach,  but  nothing  was  said  except  by  a  very 
charming  young  lady,  fresh  from  Ollendorf.  She 
released  a  loving  arm  to  bend  forward  a  moment 
and  wave  her  fine  little  handkerchief  at  the  van- 
ishing show,  exclaiming:  "Adieu,  monsieur 
le  nouveau  riche" 

The  sweet  girl  graduate  had  taken  the  sense 
of  the  meeting.  When  the  purple  and  gold 
passed  from  sight,  the  throng  fell  into  line  as 
before  the  interruption,  and  in  placid  enjoyment 
yielded  to  the  dreamy  spell  of  vesper  sunlight 
and  lulling  sound.  All  was  refined,  serene, 
restful. 

The  mild  ripples,  changeful  as  the  hues  of 
the  dolphin,  came  and  went,  leaving  their 
slight  tracery  in  the  sand,  secret  messages  from 
hidden  depths  far  away.  The  blue  waters  mur- 
mured mystic  music  to  fair  and  gracious  maidens 
and  youths  of  gentle,  graceful  mien ;  tender 
cushats,  cooing  and  wooing  and  sighing,  but  not 
for  the  touch  of  vanished  hands.  The  rhythmic 
ebb  and  flow  charmed  the  sense  with  hints  of 
warbling  peris  and  dying  cadences  of  mermaids' 
songs.  Earth  and  ocean  in  perfect  tune,  the 


200  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

very  air  thrilled  with  a  tremulous  harmony, 
while  youth  and  beauty  wove  their  low,  sweet 
idyl.  Lapwings  glided  along  the  sands,  where 
the  sick  lady  rested  in  her  invalid  chair,  under  a 
gayly-striped  awning.  White  gulls  screamed 
and  circled  round  a  ship  lying  at  anchor  in  the 
shining  bay,  her  flag  a  wavy  line  of  brilliant 
color  against  the  pale  horizon.  Beyond  it,  in 
dim  perspective,  a  long  procession  of  vessels 
slowly  sailing.  An  endless  picture,  suggestive 
of  famous  places  and  unknown  nations,  gathered 
treasure  of  pearl  and  amber,  spicery  and  silks, 
and  happy  home,  coming  from  voyages  through 
halcyon  seas,  by  distant  fragrant  shores.  The 
wind  was  warm,  its  breath  was  balm,  the  world 
was  lulled  to  rest. 

A  flush  of  pink  fell  from  out  the  tranquil  sky. 
It  dropped  fresh  roses  on  faded  cheeks,  and  in 
its  blush  I  saw  the  young  face  beside  me  as  it  had 
been  the  face  of  an  angel.  Then  I  thought  the 
beautiful  is  wealth,  the  world  over.  My  darling 
holds  in  her  slender  hand  the  keys  of  the  pal- 
aces. 

The  walk  to  the  light-house  was  not  so  bad, 
after  all. 

My  holiday  ended,  I  returned  to  the  City  of 
Holy  Faith,  and  exactly  a  year  from  the  date  of 
this  story  took  my  constitutional  walk  in  the 
splendor  of  sunlight  such  as  never  falls  on  land 
or  sea  east  of  the  Rocky  Mountains.  No  fear 
of  rain  to  drive  me  indoors,  no  speculations  about 
clear  or  cloudy  to-morrows,  we  know  a  radiant 
shining  will  lighten  the  coming  morning,  just  as 
it  filled  the  sky  of  yesterday.  With  the  Pueblos, 
I  am  a  devout  sun-worshipper  and  love  at  his  ris- 
ing to  salute  the  lord  of  light  and  life,  and  again 
"under  the  sad  passion  of  the  dying  day"  to 
watch  his  departure.  Returning  from  my  invisi- 
ble altar  on  old  Fort  Marcy,  I  threaded  my  way 


Zufii  Effigies, 


The  Ruby  Silver  Mine.— Continued.  20) 

cramped  and  crooked  streets,  and,  mak- 
ing the  round  of  the  Plaza,  saw  beside  the  gate  a 
burro  being  loaded  with  a  miner's  outfit.  He 
was  not  much  larger  than  a  dog ;  beyond  com- 
pare the  most  wretched  of  his  miserable  race,  a 
pitiable  wreck.  He  was  mangy  and  sore-eyed, 
his  tail  tapered  to  a  stumpy  point,  the  tuft  at  the 
end  fallen  beyond  the  reach  of  any  "  restorer.7' 
Patches  of  hair  worn  off  in  various  portions  of 
his  body  exposed  wrinkled,  leathery  hide,  and  the 
dark  cross  over  the  shoulders  was  pitted  with 
scars,  like  marks  of  small-pox.  There  was  not 
enough  flesh  on  those  protrusive  bones  to  make 
one  meal  for  the  ravening  mountain  wolf,  or 
a  respectable  lunch  for  half  a  dozen  carrion  crows. 
Arid  and  dusty,  the  creature  looked  like  the 
mummy  of  some  antediluvian  animal.  Easy  to 
see  his  portion  had  been  kicks,  scourge,  goads, 
abuse ;  no  champagne  savannah,  no  green  meadow 
or  lush  blue  grass  in  his  line  of  travel ;  but  life- 
withering  marches  in  snowy  and  sandy  desert, 
where  scant  herbage  and  meagre  shrub  were 
enough  for  the  starving  slave. 

Yet  the  sorry  beast  was  not  senseless  nor  alto- 
gether broken  in  spirit.  A  train  of  mules  went 
by.  Among  them  he  recognized  an  old  acquaint- 
ance, a  fellow- sufferer.  He  lifted  his  head  and 
plucked  up  heart  for  a  passing  salute,  essaying  a 
feeble  bray.  The  unwonted  sound  was  too  great 
an  effort  for  the  gaunt  throat.  It  died  in  a  hoarse 
rattle  and  was  buried  in  a  succession  of  notes, 
the  strangest  mortal  ear  has  heard  since  that  old 
day  Jubal  first  struck  the  gamut. 

Pick,  shovel,  bags  of  crackers,  blanket,  and 
coffee-pot  were  piled  high  on  the  tough  burden- 
bearer,  and,  watching  the  loading  done  by  a 
Mexican  boy,  a  tall  man  lazily  leaned  against  the 
diminutive  brute,  apparently  reckless  of  the  dan- 
ger of  upsetting  donkey  and  cargo,  and  sending 


2o2  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

them  sprawling  across  the  sidewalk.  There  was 
nothing  to  draw  attention  in  his  familiar  uniform 
— high-top  boots,  cactus-proof  buckskin  pants, 
hickory  shirt,  red  neck-handkerchief;  but  under 
the  broad  slouch  hat  were  straggling  locks  that 
caught  my  eye — a  peculiar  tinge  of  reddish 
bronze,  the  cabello  del  oro  of  the  Argonaut 
of  '79. 

The  never-resting  wheel  of  fortune  had  made 
the  downward  curve.  The  Dives  miner  had 
summered  in  Saratoga,  betting  on  cards  and 
horses,  had  staked  tens  of  thousands  on  the  haz- 
ard of  a  dicer's  throw,  lost  everything,  and  now 
was  back  to  the  starting- place,  ready  to  try 
again.  I  remembered  the  purple  and  gold,  the 
dash  and  glitter  of  the  rich  man  at  Cape  May. 
The  apparition  of  prancing  steeds  of  matchless 
beauty,  with  dainty  limbs,  too  dainty  for  the  sand 
they  touched  but  to  spurn,  flitted  before  me. 

Gambler  though  he  was  and  deserved  it,  the 
forlornness  of  the  change  would  touch  a  harder 
heart  than  yours  or  mine,  dear  reader.  I 
stepped  toward  the  gate.  At  that  moment 
Dives — perhaps  I  had  best  say  Lazarus — poked 
the  poor  burro  with  a  sharp  stick  and,  in  a  high, 
gay  voice,  struck  up  : 

"Of  all  the  wives  you  e'er  can  know, 
There's  none  like  Nancy  Lee,  I  trow." 

Then,  as  Bunyan  hath  it,  he  went  on  his  way 
and  I  saw  him  no  more. 

This  story  sounds  like  a  pure  invention.  Does 
it  not  ?  I  confess  to  trifling  attempts  in  decora- 
tive art,  a  tiny  dash  of  color,  the  least  bit  of 
embroidery,  just  to  round  a  corner  and  give  a 
little  life  to  dullness,  you  know,  but  not  now. 
My  hero  is  to-day  a  day-laborer,  working  in  the 
great  King  Henry  lead  in  the  Shakespeare  dis- 
trict of  New  Mexico — the  man  who  for  one 


Mine  Experience.  203 

brief  summer  reckoned  his  money  by  hundreds 
of  thousands.     You  can  see  him  when  you  ^c. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

MINE    EXPERIENCE. 

THE  reader  who  graciously  follows  me  to  the 
end  of  this  brief  history  will  readily  comprehend 
why  it  must  be  somewhat  obscure.  "  I  could  a 
tale  unfold  "  better  worth  the  hearing,  but  like 
the  poor  ghost  I  am  forbid  to  tell  the  secrets  of 
my  prison  house.  It  need  harrow  up  no  soul  to 
hint  that  the  scene  was  laid  and  drama  played 
not  a  thousand  miles  from  Tucson,  Arizona. 

Imagine  a  vega  of  sea -like  vastness,  in  a  rock- 
setting  of  ghostly  Sierras  whose  rent  crags  pierce 
through  the  rich  blue  air  far  above  the  snow  line. 
In  the  primeval  years  the  Apaches  possessed  the 
country,  and  with  the  poetic  instinct  which  never 
quite  forsakes  the  savagest  of  savages  they 
called  this  range  the  Mist -Befringed  Mountains. 
To  reach  the  valley  from  the  west,  we  leave  the 
main  road  and  cross  rough  masses  of  lava  which 
block  the  way.  The  seeming  barrier  ends  in  a 
narrow  pass,  a  mile  or  so  from  wall  to  wall, — a 
mighty  stone  corridor  stately  as  Karnak,  and 
gloomy  with  the  all-pervading  silence  of  death. 
At  the  end  is  a  high  natural  gateway  of  red 
granite ;  passing  under  it  we  emerge  into  a  smooth 
expanse  level  as  water,  an  amphitheatre  whose 
blank  surface  is  relieved  by  scattered  masses 
of  lava  upheaved  in  some  fiery  earthquake  long 
stilled  their  rigid  outlines  jagged  and  bristling. 

There  is  no  verdure  to  soften  the  foothills  so 
savagely  hacked  and  split  in  yawning  cracks. 
No  tender  moss,  no  shrub,  no  sparkling  water  or 


204  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

waving  branches  brighten  the  leaden  hues  of  the 
gray  desert;  treeless,  windless,  waterless.  If 
herbage  ever  grew  there  it  is  now  overdrifted 
with  sand.  The  wonderful  mirage — most  mar- 
velous of  Nature's  mysteries — swims  over  it  in 
the  dreamy  haze  of  early  morning,  A  deep, 
dark  coolness  follows  the  burning  day,  and  the 
jeweled  sky,  of  opal  and  turquoise,  is  unspeaka- 
bly beautiful.  Other  change  there  i«  none. 

It  would  seem  a  place  for  the  unclean  condor 
to  lay  her  eggs  on  the  bare  rocks,  and  the  eagle 
to  wheel  and  scream  and  stir  up  her  nest  with 
wings  which  battle  the  storm ;  but  there  is  no 
trace  of  bird  or  insect  life,  no  wolf  or  antelope, 
coyote  or  lizard. 

It  is  the  one  place  in  which  I  have  stood 
where  the  earth  is  as  still  as  the  sky.  Suppose 
we  call  the  dreary  region  with  its  adamantine 
rocks  the  Foothills  of  the  Mountains  of  the 
Moon.  There  in  the  beginning  silence  set  her 

seal,  unbroken  till  eighteen  hundred  and 

some  odd  years.  For  reasons  obvious,  I  cannot 
be  exact  regarding  dates. 

In  a  memorable  hour  the  death-like  hush  was 
startled  by  the  ring  of  a  single  hammer  on  the 
torn  mountain  wall  at  the  west  end  of  the  vega. 
Blow  on  blow  against  the  riven  clefts  resounded 
through  the  warm  blue  silence. 

Was  it  a  Bostonian  seeking  the  Infinite  ?  Did 
he  see  beyond  the  verge  of  sight,  like  the  young 
Aladdin  led  on  by  the  Genii  of  the  Cave  ? 

All  day  the  one  man  toiled,  digging,  hewing, 
breaking,  scraping  pieces  of  stone  with  a  pen- 
knife. What  he  sought  he  evidently  found,  put 
some  of  it  in  his  pockets,  other  portions  in  his 
haversack,  and  wound  out  of  the  cavernous 
gloom  at  sunset  through  the  narrow  defile  to  the 
world  outside  the  lifeless  plain.  He  is  brave 


Mine   Experience.  205 

beyond    the   bravest  who  would  stay  there  till 
midnight, 

"  Alone  in  the  terrible  waste  with  God." 

A  week  passed,  and  one  crisp  and  clear  morn- 
ing— owing  to  very  high  altitude  the  nights  here 
are  always  cool — three  men  passed  under  the 
rock  gateway,  each  with  tools  and  determina- 
tion of  iron.  Steadily  they  worked  in  the  long 
hot  day,  stopping  for  lunch  and  a  short  rest  at 
noon.  Only  the  all  .seeing  eye  was  upon  them, 
no  human  ear  was  there  to  hear,  yet  at  intervals 
they  looked  around  as  though  in  an  enemy's 
country,  and  their  rare  speech  was  in  suppressed 
voices.  They  bent  with  faces  to  the  ground  as 
children  hunt  for  nuts.  They  peered  into  cracks 
and  crevices  and  pried  up  loose  stones,  scattered 
debris,  broke  them  open,  and  gazed  at  their  inte- 
rior under  a  hand  mirror.  Occasionally  the  light- 
est man,  a  mere  strippling,  mounted  the  shoul- 
ders of  the  other  two  and  seized  something 
above  their  heads.  Were  they  a  trio  of  poets 
obeying  the  charge  of  the  Bard  of  the  Sierras, 
"  Lean  your  ladder  not  against  the  clouds,  but 
against  the  solid  Rocky  Mountains  and  climb 
there?"  They  saw  something  which  thrilled 
their  pulses,  and  bore  off  a  load  in  sacks  just  as 
the  snow  crowned  peaks  blushed  with  the  ineffa- 
ble beauty  of  the  afterglow.  Then  darkness 
leaped  from  the  mountain  walls  and  held  the 
valley,  in  the  starry  silence,  lone  as  the  land 
liavillah  before  the  first  gold  seekers  crossed  the 
river  on  their  endless  quest. 

Another  week  brought  a  picnic  party  largely 
composed  of  ladies,  two  gentlemen  in  army  blue, 
girls  made  of  roses  and  dimples,  curls  and  rib- 
bons, young  men  with  eager,  handsome  faces. 
Rocky  Mountain  ladies  are  always  well  mounted 
and  are  fearless  horsewomen.  Diana  Vernon 
might  envy  their  dash  and  daring,  and  in  this 


206  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

rarified  atmosphere  horses  are  mettlesome  and 
endure  as  they  cannot  in  the  low  countries. 
There  was  much  prancing  and  spurring  through 
the  rugged  defile,  and  many  a  rider  less  bold 
would  have  been  unseated  even  on  the  sure- 
footed ponies.  They  brought  little  twigs  of 
pinones  from  the  canons  and  made  fires  with 
matches  scraped  on  boot  heels ;  they  unpacked 
hampers,  opened  cans,  .played  games,  snouted, 
sung,  wild  with  overflowing  spirits;  they  ate, 
drank  and  were  merry,  all  the  while  hunting  and 
hunting.  Lovers  strayed  in  pairs  to  dusky 
recesses  in  the  mountain  rim,  not  on  purpose  to 
be  lost  nor  to  find  the  four-leaf  clover,  nor  yet  to 
learn  how  to  make  love  dials  of  daisies.  They 
sought  something  more  than  the  hasty  charm  of 
a  stolen  kiss.  They  looked  for  shining  stones, 
gleaming  metal,  precious  clay,  and  every  one 
carried  in  a  pocket  handkerchief  minute  sec- 
tions of  the  adamantine  Foothills  of  the  Moun- 
tains of  the  Moon.  Even  uninstructed  eyes  can 
trace  the  rust  colored,  red-brown  lines  of  "  bios- 
som  rock,"  and  it  is  following  a  captivating  lead 
to  yield  one's  self  to  its  beguiling  ways. 

One  youth  and  maiden  tracked  it  far  up  the 
canon  to  a  gnarled  and  twisted  pine  which  over- 
hung the  edge  of  a  sheer  crag  to  which  it  clung 
by  roots  clutching  like  claws.  In  the  dry,  dew- 
less  air  the  needles  of  the  pine  lay  in  soft  carpet- 
ing undisturbed  for  ages.  They  sat  and  rested 
beneath  the  skeleton  tree,  and  listened  to  soft 
aeolian  airs  faintly  stirring  the  bare  branches  over- 
head. Then  she  sang  in  the  sweetest  voice: 
"  Is  this  a  dream  ?  Then  waking  would  be  pain." 

And  in  answer  he  tossed  up  his  cap  and  it 
lodged  in  the  pine,  and  they  clapped  their  hands 
in  an  impromptu  chorus,  "  No,  no,  no!  a  thou- 
sand times,  no !  "  If  there  be  elves  in  the  Mist- 
Befringed  Mountains  they  must  have  laughed  at 


Mine  Experience.  207 

this  frolicsome  glee,  for  such  sounds  are  a  new 
revelation  there.  The  young  couple  were  not 
crazy,  they  had  heaved  up  a  rough  brown  stone, 
and  striking  it  with  a  heavy  hammer  they  saw — 
ay  de  mi !  the  electric  flash  of  wedding  rings. 
The  zigzag  lines  of  "  blossom  rock"  held  wreaths 
of  orange  flowers,  hitherto  unattainable,  and  now 
they  felt  so  near  their  sweetness  they  were  filled 
with  delight.  The  poor  young  things  had 
thought  best  to  bear  their  poverty  apart  (he  was 
a  second  lieutenant),  but  now  they  could  hear 
marriage  bells  in  every  stroke  of  the  magic  ham- 
mer, in  every  throb  of  their  happy  hearts. 

A  stray  dove,  bewildered  and  lost,  lighted  at 
their  feet,  tame  because  ignorant  of  men,  and 
they  hailed  the  gentle  bird  as  an  omen.  Then  he 
called  her  his  dove-eyed  darling,  talking  the 
sweet  foolery  my  gray-haired  reader  laughs  at, 
but  would  give  a  year  of  peaceful  life  to  hear 
again  for  one  half-hour. 

O  day  of  bridal  brightness  whose  splendor 
lives  in  the  illuminated  Book  of  Chronicles! — let 
me  linger  a  moment  over  its  unfading  beauty. 
The  lovers  locked  their  happy  arms  together  and 
trod  lightly  over  enchanted  ground,  in  the  silence 
of  perfect  happiness, — all  that  is  left  us  of  the 
lost  language  of  Eden.  Wherever  their  spark- 
ling glances  fell,  myrtles  sprung  up.  O  never, 
on  land,  or  in  sea,  grew  flowers  like  those  which 
bloomed  in  their  foot-prints  along  the  sandy  beds 
of  "blossom  rock." 

The  lieutenant  was  bare-headed,  for  he  never 
got  his  cap,  though  he  stoned  it  valiantly  and 
even  shot  his  revolver  at  the  limb  where  it  hung. 
A  frontier  lady  is  full  of  expedients  as  Robinson 
Crusoe,  and  the  girl  he  loved,  with  deft  and  taste- 
ful fingers  devised  a  cap  from  her  silken  kerchief 
and  trimmed  it  with  a  drooping  feather  from  her 
own  riding  hat.  Very  proud  was  the  face 


208  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

beneath  it,  and  he  bowed  in  admiration  of  her 
ingenuity  and  murmured  some  soft  nonsense  you 
do  not  care  to  hear. 

They  joined  the  party  in  the  plain  with  an 
assumption  of  indifference,  transparent  as  mica, 
— a  flimsy  ruse,  old  as  the  oldest  lovers, — and 
of  course  every  one  saw  just  how  matters  stood 
the  instant  they  appeared.  He  went  to  look 
after  the  pony,  tied  by  a  lariat  to  a  block  of 
stone,  patted  her  never  so  gently,  stroked  her 
mane,  and  called  her  "  Pretty  girl,  pretty  girl."  The 
maiden  sat  on  a  striped  Navayo  blanket  and  in 
an  arch  bewitching  way  sang  to  an  old  Spanish 
air  full  of  trills  and  graces  this  song : 

"QUIENSABE?"* 
I. 

"  The  breeze  of  the  evening  that  cools  the  hot  air, 

That  kisses  the  or.-tnge  and  shakes  out  thy  hair, 

Is  its  freshness  less  welcome,  less  sweet  its  perfume, 

That  you  know  not  the  region  from  whence  it  is  come  ? 

Whence  the  wind  blows,  where  the  wind  goes, 

Hither,  and  thither,  and  whither— who  knows  ?  Who  knows  ? 

Hither  and  thither— but  whither— who  knows  ? 

ii. 

"  The  river  forever  glides  singing  along, 

The  rose  on  the  bank  bends  adown  to  its  song, 

And  the  flower,  as  it  listens,  unconsciously  dips 

Till  the  rising  wave  glistens  and  kisses  its  lips. 

But  why  the  wave  rises  and  kisses  the  rose, 

And  why  the  rose  stops  for  those  kisses— who  knows?  Who  knows? 

And  away  flows  the  river— but  whither— who  knows  ? 


"  Let  me  be  the  breeze,  love,  that  wanders  along 

The  river  that  ever  rejoices  in  song ; 

Be  thou  to  my  fancy  the  orange  in  bloom, 

The  rose  by  the  river  that  gives  its  perfume. 

Would  the  fruit  be  so  golden,  so  fragrant  the  rose, 

If  no  breeze  and  no  wave  were  to  kiss  them  ?    Who  knows  ?    Who 

knows  ? 
If  no  breeze  and  no  wave  were  to  kiss  them  ?    Who  knows  ?  " 

Before  the  singer  lay  the  desert  grim  and 
bare,  girdled  by  scarred,  seamed  mountains — a 
boundry  wall  touched  with  purplish  tints  of 

*I  need  hardly  tell  my  reader  the  words  "  Quien  Sabe?  "— 
"Who  knows?"— are  the  unanswerable  answer  forever  on  the 
Spanish-speaking  tongue. 


Mine  Experience.  209 

supreme  beauty.  Behind  her,  a  dim  outline  of 
snow  and  granite  in  the  far  horizon,  the  Sierra 
Nevada  projected  against  the  rainless  blue,  the 
blade  of  snow-white  teeth  which  suggested  its 
Castilian  name.  The  valley  had  a  fascination  from 
its  absolute  loneliness.  Not  a  cloud  flecked  the 
blue  above,  not  a  breath  stirred  the  air  while  the 
song  was  sung. 

The  elders  gave  it  a  divided  attention,  being 
intent  on  lumps  of  treasure  which  they  "  hefted  " 
in  their  palms,  balanced  on  their  forefingers,  and 
gazed  at  affectionately  through  a  glass  into  which 
they  puckered  their  eyelids,  making  gathers  of 
the  crow's  feet  quite  frightful  to  see.  As  each 
one  passed  the  glass  to  his  neighbor  he  nodded 
in  dumb  approval,  with  a  look  of  mystery  smiling 
and  smiling,  and  the  more  enthusiastic  winked 
and  rubbed  their  hands  as  it  went  the  rounds. 

Such  withcraft  is  there  in  one  small  hand 
mirror ! 

After  lunch  at  picnics  there  is  usually  a  period 
of  "  nooning  "  while  gentlemen  smoke  and  ladies 
recline,  or  seek  siestas  in  friendly  shade  ;  but  there 
was  no  quiet  here  and  to  the  last  no  flagging  of 
the  high  festivity. 

A  rose-blush  of  exquisite  haze,  a  phantasm 
"  mystic,  wonderful,"  floating  through  the  vapory 
architecture  of  the  Sierras,  seemed  the  very  soul 
of  the  halcyon  day.  The  adorable  girl  who 
turned  more  than  one  head  by  smoking  cigarettes, 
waved  her  hand  at  the  shade  and  called  loudly, 
"  Look,  see,  the  day  is  dying,  its  spirit  is  passing. 
Turn  your  faces  to  the  west  and  be  attentive." 

Gaily  they  hastened  to  gather  round  the  fair 
speaker.  With  low  mutterings  and  many  tragic 
gestures  she  drew  a  circle  in  the  sand,  stood  in 
the  centre  and  blew  a  whiff  of  smoke,  north, 
south,  east,  west,  as  Moqui  Indians  invoke  the 
sun  with  their  incantations. 


2io  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

"  Now,"  said  the  self-elected  priestess,  with 
solemn  accent,  "  now  watch  without  speech  or 
breath,  and  we  will  have  a  token  and  a  sign  from 
the  god  of  the  Pueblos." 

Humoring  her  fancy,  they  waited  in  silence 
and  lo !  before  their  eyes  the  shape  darkened, 
glowed,  transmuted  into  a  mass  of  glittering 
gold. 

"The  oracles  have  answered,"  she  cried. 
"Good  bye,  O  Sun,  ruler  of  this  hour,  take  thanks 
from  thy  white  children  for  the  golden  promise 
of  to-day.  Believers,  salute  him." 

All  obeyed,  and  with  bare  head  and  uproarious 
cheers  waved  hats  and  handkerchiefs  in  good  bye 
to  the  day  and  the  friendly  powers  that  be.  The 
merry  cavalcade,  laughing  and  shouting,  rode 
straight  into  the  golden  fire  and  flaming  snow, 
each  one  carrying  heavy  weights  of  stone,  every 
heart  beating  lightly. 

Rapidly  the  voices  died  away.  The  metallic 
luster  of  the  sky  melted  into  opalescent  pearl  and 
purple.  Day  and  night  kissed  and  parted.  Sud- 
denly the  stars  looked  out  in  serene  eternal  beauty 
on  the  smouldering  fires,  the  vanishing  trace  of 
man,  and  the  vega  alone  with  the  night, — the 
hushed  desolation  doubly  drear  for  the  appari- 
tion of  loveliness  which  endured  but  for  a  day. 

The  next  morning  brought  more  men  with 
picks  and  hammers,  mules  laden  with  kegs  of 
water,  shovels  and  various  cooking  utensils  and 
traps.  There  was  a  stir  and  bustle,  two  tents 
were  pitched;  a  conspicuous  figure  was  a  cook 
"  come  up  from  de  Souf  durin'  de  wah," — sign  of 
a  permanent  camp.  Against  stubborn  clay  and 
quartz  rock  work  goes  on  slowly,  but  it  did  go 
on  in  the  Mist-Befringed  Mountains.  It  took 
many  weeks  to  survey  a  certain  district  and  make 
excavations,  one  deep  as  a  well.  They  were 
made  against  obstacles  which  daunt  men  of 


Mine  Experience,  21 1 

weak  will;  lack  of  fuel,  lack  of  water,  torrid  sun- 
heat,  chill,  benumbing  nights.  The  plain  was 
dotted  with  holes  very  like  graves,  marked  with 
little  pine  head-boards  bearing  dates  and  figures. 
They  have  sweet  names:  "Baby  Mine,"  "Golden 
Fleece/'  "Sleeping  Beauty,"  "Maud  Muller," 
"Highland  Mary,"  "  Day  star, »  "The  Fair 
Ophelia."  This  last  is  the  deepest  excavation. 

Usually  claim  stakes,  for  such  they  are,  in  out- 
of-the-way  places  mark  the  lt  Old  Bourbon, " 
"  The  Right  Bower,"  "  Dying  Gasp,"  "  Wake  up, 
Jake,"  "New  Deal,"  "Chance  Shot,"  "The  Blue 
Pup,"  and  so  on.  The  titles  are  indication  of 
the  vein  of  tender  sentiment  which  runs  deep  in 
the  heart  of  woman.  Evidently  gentle  souls 
fluttered  about  the  head-boards  when  they  were 
set  in  the  ground.  They  were  standing  there 
to-day. 

******         * 

That  row  of  stars,  dear  reader,  means, 

"  Thoughts  which  do  lie  too  deep  for  tears." 


Sometimes  in  quiet  Sunday  afternoons  a  party 
of  lovely  women,  the  charmed  number  not  less 
than  the  graces  nor  more  than  the  muses,  ride 
out  from  Las  Lunas,  through  the  frowning 
avenue  and  lonesome  gorge,  and  haunt  the  silent 
valley  as  mourners  are  wont  to  linger  about  new- 
made  graves.  To  avoid  trouble  in  remembering 
names  I  group  them. 

Allow  me  to  present  my  charming  friends  the 
Pleiads.  Years,  tears,  or  study,  perhaps  all  com- 
bined, have  dimmed  the  brilliance  of  one  face. 
They  tread  softly  and  slowly,  are  very  depressed, 
and  appear  to  find  a  mourner's  consolation  in 
reading  the  head-boards.  Under  the  funeral 
shadow  cast  by  the  overhanging  pine  (the  Lieu- 
tenant's cap  is  still  there )  they  sit  on  newly 
spaded  earth  and  compare  experience  and 


212  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

sorrows.  A  dove  in  the  skeleton  tree,  listening, 
might  hear  subdued  laments  :  "O  why  did  I  touch 
the  '  Sleeping  Beauty  ?  "'  "  '  Of  all  the  sad  words 
of  tongue  or  pen,' '  "  «  All  that  glitters  is  not 
gold,  V"  and  as  they  bend  above  the  "  Highland 
Mary,"  one  hums  an  old  song,  beginning : 

"Thou  lingering  star  with  lessening  ray.' 

Sung  with  tenderness  and  pathos  it  floats 
through  the  deathlike  stillness  like  a  dirge.  Can 
it  be  possible  these  sad-eyed  mourners  are  the 
bright  spirits  of  the  picnic,  who  made  that  shin- 
ing day 

"  a  beauteous  dream, 

If  it  had  been  no  more  ?  " 

Twere  vain  to  tell  thee  all 

Just  when  it  matters  not,  these  women  pon- 
dered over  maps,  meaningless  to  them  as  the  fif- 
teen puzzle  which  has  proved  the  streak  of  id- 
iocy in  the  entire  human  family ;  over  Miner's 
Handbooks,  over  the  "Prospector's  Complete 
Guide  to  Wealth."  They  grew  familiar  with 
frightful  engravings,  flaming  pictures  of  red  hot 
underground  machinery,  lurid  as  the  Insurance 
Chromo.  Light  literature  and  the  newspapers 
were  forsaken,  and  instead  their  tables  were  lit- 
tered with  such  pamphlets  as  "  Treatises  on  the 
Patent  Amalgamator,"  "The  best  method  of 
reducing  Argentiferous  Ores,"  and  "The  Hy- 
draulic Ram," — a  horrible  subject.  The  femi- 
nine mind  does  not  readily  adjust  itself  to  this 
sort  of  lore,  and  though  novel  and  highly  instruc- 
tive they  were  forced  to  confess  it  was  "trying." 
The  owner  of  "The  Fair  Ophelia"  almost  lost 
her  reason  in  a  frantic  and  futile  effort  to  master 
the  workings  of  the  diamond  drill,  and  to  com- 
prehend the  advantages  the  double  oscillating 
cylinder  engine  has  over  the  steel  or  percussive 
system  of  drilling. 


Mine  Experience.  213 

While  these  exhaustive  studies  went  on,  the 
students  discoursed  of  fissure  veins,  of  float, 
leads,  developments,  face  rock,  bed  rock,  pyrites, 
chlorides,  sulphurets.  Alternating  anguish  and 
ecstacy  shook  their  slender  frames;  one  day 
brought  a  dazzling  promise,  the  next  a  blank 
contradiction  which  told  on  their  nerves  with  the 
force  of  a  blow.  Everything  was  shifting  and 
uncertain  except  the  assessments.  There  was  a 
sense  of  security  in  having  one  thing  to  be 
relied  on,  and  they  were  brought  in  with  exact 
regularity.  The  moon  did  not  wax  and  wane 
with  more  unvarying  certainty,  and  obligations 
of  all  sorts  were  met  with  unquestioning  prompt- 
ness, not  to  say  alacrity. 

How  many  months'  pay  went  into  these  rich 
experiences  your  historian  is  unable  to  record. 
The  Pleiads,  though  brilliant  in  the  social  circle, 
were  not  trained  to  strict  business  habits,  and  it 
is  possible,  indeed  quite  probable,  no  account  of 
expense  was  kept.  In  that  time  the  battered 
old  pun  about  lying  on  your  oars  (not  to  be 
despised  and  able  to  bear  a  good  deal  of  abuse 
yet)  was  dinned  in  ears  to  which  the  antique  wit- 
ticism was  already  familiar.  The  note  of  warn- 
ing fell  lightly  as  snow  falls  on  snow,  leaving  no 
imprint ;  and  the  toilsome  excavating  went 
bravely  on.  A  judicious  friend  —  merely  a 
looker-on — advised  selling  out.  The  old  front- 
iersman was  assailed  with  indignant  scorn.  Much 
learning  had  made  him  mad. 

"  What !  sell  out  now,  now,  in  the  face  of  such 
a  prospect." 

"  After  all  this  outlay  !  " 

"  After  holding  on  so  long  !     Now ! " 

"  Not  if  I  know  myself." 

"Nor  I." 

"  Nor  I." 

"Nor  I." 


214  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

Before  the  seven-fold  chorus  and  harpings  the 
dismayed  counsellor  hastily  retreated  to  his 
adobe  office,  and  the  Pleiads  looked  forth  as  the 
morning,  fair  as  the  moon,  clear  as  the  sun,  and 
terrible  as  an  army  with  banners. 

Patient  investigation  fails  to  show  up  (uncon- 
sciously one  drops  into  mining  phrase  in  mining 
countries)  any  offer  to  buy,  but  the  very  thought 
of  selling  out  was  rousing — a. reflection  on  the  fair 
owner  of  "The  Fair  Ophelia."  Varying  rapture 
and  despair  wore  those  lovely  women  to  faded 
spectres,  for  the  long,  slow  lesson  of  waiting  is  a 
fearful  strain  on  tense  nerves.  Well  for  their 
balance  is  it  that  housekeeping  is  so  difficult  on 
the  barren  frontier. 

Despite  the  wholesome  restraint  of  domestic 
duty,  the  daily  task  of  making  something  out  of 
nothing,  they  wiled  away  long  afternoons 
telling  stories  worthy  the  best  days  of  Monte 
Christo,  Captain  Kidd  and  the  gallant  Sinbad. 
A  childish  credulity  overtook  them.  Though 
highly  intellectual  and  very  superior,  educated  in 
modern  "  culture"  (Boston  accent),  they  showed 
a  capacity  for  belief  that  was  amazing. 

How  diligently  they  groped  along  the  tangled 
lines  on  the  agonizing  maps  !  How  glibly  they 
talked  of  metalliferous  foothills,  of  bonanza  kings, 
of  "extracting"  and  "  separating  processes,"  of 
running  galleries  and  driven  tunnels.  You  know 
it  is  the  amateur  who  is  most  sanguine  in 
every  enterprise.  The  joint  stock  of  enthusiasm 
owned  by  the  Pleiads  lightened  the  way  but  was 
not  inexhaustible.  Notwithstanding  enlivening 
converse  in  learned  phrase — a  kind  of  foreign 
language — hope  flickered,  the  fever  burned  their 
eyes  into  hollows,  and  the  judicious  friend  shook 
his  white  head  in  secret,  forecasting  how  long 
this  sort  of  thing  was  going  to  last. 

When  the   crisis   came   Electra  fainted  dead 


Mine  Experience.  215 

away, — dropped  as  if  shot  through  the  heart. 
She  was  a  good  deal  reduced  with  study  of 
secrets  hid  in  "  The  Smelter,"  and  the  book 
slipped  from  her  nerveless  hand  as  she  reached 
out  to  receive  the  dispatch. 

It  came  at  the  close  of  the  short  twilight  of  a 
day  never  to  be  forgotten.  She  was  sitting  in 
the  portal  to  catch  the  last  rays  on  the  printed 
page,  for  her  eyes  are  not  so  young  as  they  once 
were,  and  in  this  land  there  is  brief  margin  time 
of  silver  gray  sky  and  drowsing  earth.  There 
trotted  along  the  sheep  paths  and  through  the 
cramped  and  crooked  streets  a  burro  with  all  the 
speed  a  burro  can  make,  goaded  forward  by  a 
stick  sharpened  to  that  end.  Mounted  on  him 
without  bridle,  saddle,  whip  or  spur,  was  a  boy 
recognized  as  a  sort  of  messenger  in  the  camp 
of  the  Mist-Befringed  Mountains, — a  boy  beauti- 
ful as  a  princess'  page,  with  real  Murillo  head 
and  luminous  oriental  eyes  beaming  with  steady 
light  in  the  olive  face.  There  was  exceptional 
grace  in  the  movement  of  his  limbs  as  he  dis- 
mounted ;  his  voice  is  always  sad,  and  the  soft 
"Buenos  dias  Senora"  conveyed  no  hint  whether 
the  bearer  brought  tidings  good  or  ill.  Bare- 
headed, he  yet  contrived  to  make  the  courtly 
Spanish  bow,  shook  back  his  jetty  locks,  and 
bending  low  delivered  the  letter.  The  boy's 
lovely  name  is  Rafael  Antonina  Molino,  and  the 
dispatch  was  a  leaf  torn  from  a  scratch-book, 
scrawled  in  haste  with  a  hand  that  evidently 
trembled  in  the  writing.  It  ran : 

Near  Las  Lunas. 

At  last!  About  noon  yesterday  the  digger 
in  "The  Fair  Ophelia"  struck  soft  carbonates 
genuine  Leadville  carbonates,  and  are  now  down 
four  feet.  They  show  up  better  and  better. 

Your  own  Jason. 


2t6  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

P.  S.— Send  me  a  white  shirt.  I  am  to  speak 
at  the  ratification  meeting  to-night. 

A  thrilling  pause — a  scream,  a  bursting  shower 
of  tears,  kisses,  embraces,  a  confusion  of  tongues 
in  which  the  word  "  carbonate "  was  the  only 
one  common  to  all.  Such  a  sunshiny  storm  is 
possible  only  to  nervous  women  intensely 
wrought.  In  the  Melee  a  natty  little  jacket, 
brought  by  mail  from  Altman's  and  almost  as 
good  as  new,  was  absolutely  ripped  to  pieces. 
When  mines  are  en  bonanza  (free  translation, 
"booming")  who  cares  for  New  York  jackets ? 

I  shrink  from  the  attempt  to  picture  what  Car- 
lyle  might  call  the  resplendent  weeks  which  fol- 
lowed, while  a  test  ton  of  ore  was  sent  to  Silver 
City  for  reduction.  Still  less  can  I  venture  to 
touch  the  forlorn  portrait  of  the  judicious  friend 
who  advised  selling  out  He  repented  in  sack 
cloth  and  alkali  dust,  and  meekly  apologized 
three  times  a  day  and  again  at  bed  time.  So 
vanquished,  he  kept  close  in  his  earth  works  and 
hardly  took  courage  to  share  the  general  joy. 
They  are  living  yet  who  believe  there  was  a  dash 
of  sarcasm  in  the  withered  smile 'with  which  he 
modestly  used  to  inquire  after  the  wealth  of 
.Denmark's  daughter.  Through  the  resplendent 
weeks  (I  love  that  exquisite  word)  the  spectres 
scarcely  lost  sight  of  each  other,  and  they  were 
very  pallid.  They  mooned  about  like  young 
lovers  in  a  trance,  and  like  them  saw  with  eyes 
anointed.  A  glory  rested  on  our  dull  earth,  ting- 
ing it  with  rose-bloom  and  amethyst,  as  the  win- 
try moon,  looking  through  pictured  windows, 
warmed  the  snowy  breast  of  Madeline,  utterly  te 
montee-,  a  riotous  prodigality  possessed  them. 
Their  bank  account  was  a  sight  to  see,  and  under 
the  sweet  influence  of  the  Pleiads  the  poor 
rejoiced  and  beggars  thrived. 


Mine  Experience.  217 

Tn  happy  nights,  too  sweet  for  sleep,  they 
gathered  lilies  of  Damascus  and  drank  from 
springs  shaded  by  plumy  palms  of  Judea.  They 
painted  birds,  long  legged  birds  on  panels,  and 
sets  of  china  containing  a  thousand  pieces  each. 
Ever  they  whispered,  murmured,  dreamed. 
Soon  as  the  delirium  passed  and  the  fever  cooled 
they  resolved  to  flee  "  the  finest  climate  in  the 
world,"  beloved  of  reporters,  which  every  one 
rushes  away  from  as  soon  as  he  has  the  money 
to  go. 

Take  care !  Take  care !  These  are  the  shores 
of  doom.  Among  other  curious  formations  in 
the  adamantine  Foothills  of  the  Mountains  of  the 
Moon  are  the  Lodestone  Rocks.  Swiftly,  swiftly, 
the  si  lip  was  drawn  to  them.  The  gilded  argosy 
with  its  precious  freightage,  swelling  sail  and  tri- 
umphant banner  went  to  pieces.  Rosebloom  and 
violet  faded  into  the  light  of  common  day.  The 
poor  headboards  beside  the  open  graves  are  the 
last  of  the  wreck,  marking  the  spot  where  hopes 
rose  so  brightly  they  appeared  sure  prophesies 
unrolled. 

[Dear  reader,  on  whom  I  lean  in  tender  con- 
fidence, forgive  this  secret  tear  over  the  lifeless 
clay  of  "  The  Fair  Ophelia."  I  sat  by  its  cradle, 
I  followed  its  hearse.] 

The  judicious  friend  ventures  abroad  now.  He 
smiles  shrewdly  and  the  mourners  dream  no 
more.  They  see  with  cleared  vision,  and  will 
take  one  of  the  many  roads  which  lead  to  the 
Golden  Milestone,  and  their  dreams  will  all  come 
true  when  galena  sells  for  a  dollar  an  ounce. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

THE   RUINS   OF   MONTEZUMA'S   PALACE. 

No  AMERICAN  antiquities  except,  perhaps,  the 
Old  Mill  at  Newport,  have  figured  so  largely 
in  imagination  and  in  print  as  the  pre-historic 
ruins  along  the  Gila  River,  in  Penal  County,  Ari- 
zona. More  than  thirty  years  ago  antiquarian 
hearts  were  deeply  stirred  by  accounts  of  trav- 
ellers, then  very  rare,  describing  the  Casas 
Grandes  as  great  cities  of  hewn  stone  built  in 
a  rich  and  noble  architecture  like  that  of  Egypt. 
Rhetorical  flourishes  and  bold  flights  of  fancy, 
colored  the  pictures  drawn  before  the  days  of 
photography.  Communication  with  this  region 
was  difficult,  and  travelling  hundreds  of  miles 
the  stories  naturally  grew  along  the  way,  taking 
wider  outlines  and  warmer  coloring.  The  gold 
seekers  of  California  varied  their  explorations  by 
ascending  the  Gila,  almost  as  unknown  to  them 
as  the  White  Nile.  Rapturous  reports  came 
back,  and  for  years  the  Caas  Grandes  ranked 
with  Veii  and  Karnak.  I  greatly  regret  having 
no  copy  of  those  Pacific  newspapers  to  compare 
the  impressions  of  the  last  generation,  groping 
in  the  misty  twilight  of  half-seen  wonders,  with 
plain  facts  come  to  actual  sight  and  touch  in  the 
light  of  to-day. 

The  walled  cities,  capable  of  holding  many 
thousand  souls,  were  supplied  with  water  by 
acequias  leading  from  the  river.  They  were  rep- 
resented by  enthusiastic  Bohemians  as  aque- 
ducts of  solid  masonry  and  fairly  equal  in  dura- 
bility and  strength  to  the  Maxima  Cloaca  of 
Rome.  Charming  traditions  embellished  the 
beguiling  descriptions,  lovely  myths  and  airy  fa- 
bles floated  in  the  warm,  blue  silence  above  the 
218 


The  Ruins  of  Monte  zumas  Palace.  219 

House  of  Montezuma,  whose  lordly  name  is 
itself  a  stimulus  to  imagination.  They  were  the 
work,  so  ran  the  tales,  of  lost  races,  mysterious, 
invincible,  all-conquering,  vanished  into  the  voice- 
less past.  They  had  reached  a  high  civilization, 
as  the  magnificent  remains  attest,  and  had  passed 
from  the  earth  leaving  no  sign  but  colossal  ruins, 
no  records  but  strange  hieroglyphs,  which,  en- 
graven on  rocks  in  the  neighborhood  of  the 
Casas,  undoubtedly  formed  their  history. 

These  mural  records  are  heaps  of  weather-worn 
rocks  and  detached  boulders  covered  with  figures 
rudely  scratched  or  painted,  bearing  signs  of  great 
age.  They  possibly  served  as  boundary  lines, 
the  hieroglyphs  being  tribal  signs  of  treaties. 
One  flighty  romancer  who  understood  his  own 
language  imperfectly,  testified  that  the  "  pictured 
rocks"  were  written  over  with  deeply  carved  in- 
scriptions like  the  Hebrew,  Chaldean  and  Gothic 
characters.  They  have  been  foundation  stones 
for  imaginary  pyramids  with  sculptured  facades, 
which  were  compared  to  the  temples  of  Palenque 
and  Tuloom,  "  made  of  hewn  stone  so  admirably 
fitted  they  seem  '  born  so'  and  require  neither 
mortar  nor  clamps."  Pottery  was  found  in  pro- 
fusion, glazed  and  painted,  always  in  fragments 
too  small  and  scattered  to  be  fitted  together. 
Yet  the  visionaries  likened  the  miserable  scraps 
to  ceramics  of  antique  India  and  the  inimitable 
vases  of  Etruria. 

From  the  early  times  the  Apache,  savagest  of 
savages — the  red  man  incurably  wild — has  swept 
the  plains  and  has  held  the  mountain  fastnesses, 
carrying  terror  and  torture  from  the  upper  waters 
of  the  Pecos  far  into  old  Mexico.  The  shadowy 
region,  mountain-locked  like  some  vast  strong- 
hold guarded  by  naked  sentinels,  was  a  resistless 
temptation  to  lovers  of  the  marvellous.  The 
deserted  cities  slowly  crumbling  down  by  the 


2  Jo  7^he  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

shallow  waters  of  the  Gila  must  have  been  the 
work  of  a  people  who  maintained  their  supremacy 
in  the  face  of  savagery.  There  was  much  to  stir 
the  fancy,  ever  strongest  of  flight  under  skies 
most  unknown,  in  the  idea  of  walled  and  fortified 
cities  in  the  centre  of  barbarian  hordes,  able  to 
withstand  their  warfare  and  beat  back  their 
encroachments.  Poet,  sightseer,  archaeologist, 
reporter,  padre,  missionary,  rovers  of  every  sort 
came  by  turns  to  the  Casas  Grandes,  and  gave 
their  impressions  in  poetic  coloring  ;  and  over  all, 
like  the  dreamy  mountain  haze  whose  soft 
radiance  purples  hill  and  plain,  hung  a  delicious 
mystery.  Who  should  lift  the  secret  veil  and 
question  the  past  till  it  gave  back  some  answer  ? 
It  was  an  alluring  borderland  between  civilization 
and  barbarism ;  on  the  North  American  Con- 
tinent the  last  footing  of  phantoms  peopling  the 
unknown,  till  the  whistle  of  the  locomotive,  which 
has  broken  so  many  illusions,  put  the  pale  shades 
to  flight,  and  brushed  away  the  cobweb  and  rose- 
bloom  of  the  old  Spanish  poets. 

The  Maricopa  is  a  dreary  country,  arid  and 
inhospitable.  Even  the  Mark  Tapley  of  travellers 
observed,  while  there  :  "  This  is  not  a  jolly  place." 
The  days  are  hot  as  the  desert  where  the  White 
Nile  rises  ;  so  hot  the  very  lion's  manes  are  burnt 
off.  The  nights  are  heavenly. 

The  rivers  are  tricksy  streams — sometimes 
wet,  sometimes  dry — but  give  enough  water  to 
irrigate  meagre  cornfields.  Occasionally  they 
rise  in  the  very  centre  of  barrenness,  flow  a  mile 
or  so,  and  are  lost  in  the  sand ;  then  rise  unex- 
pectedly and  run  again. 

The  season,  I  remember,  was  unusually  dry. 
Every  one  described  by  travellers  and  official 
papers  for  whole  generations  contain  that  report. 
From  this  concurrent  testimony  it  is  safe  to  con- 
clude that  every  season  is  unusually  dry.  I 


The  -Ruins  of  MontezumcCs  Palace.  221 

testify  that  one  party  was  made  dry  as  mummies; 
but,  being  under  bonds  to  see  all  that  was  to  be 
seen,  we  were  bound  for  the  Casas  Grandes. 

To  reach  them,  we  must  enter  the  fabled  realm 
of  the  visionaries ;  where  the  Indian  emperor, 
garlanded  by  beauty,  reclining  on  crimson  and 
gold,  floated  among  opal  mountains  (the  name 
still  attaches  to  a  snowy  range)  and  far-reaching 
valleys,  sown  thick  with  jewels — a  region  fearful 
to  land  in,  because  of  the  one-horned  rhinoceros 
and  the  monstrous  Cibola  (buffalo). 

As  we  walked  about  while  waiting  for  the  am- 
bulance, the  Indian  men  tagged  after  us,  eyeing 
the  travellers  with  their  intolerable  fixed  stare ; 
but  the  women  sat  still  in  their  places.  There 
was  no  breeze  to  stir  the  air,  no  changing  clouds 
enlivening  the  bare  and  brilliant  sky,  no  sound  of 
wheels,  no  tramp  of  men  audible  in  the  sandy 
soil.  The  isolation  was  perfect  as  that  of  a  reef 
in  mid-ocean. 

The  earth  lay  in  stillness  unbroken,  and  the 
mute  and  moveless  Indian  woman  was  the  type 
of  a  deadness  which  rests  on  the  land  forever. 

Wonderful  are  the  works  of  an  inspired  imag- 
ination! This  is  the  region  where  the  West 
Indian  king  reveled  as  he  sailed,  and,  like  another 
Antony,  kissed  away  kingdoms  and  provinces 
We  had  read  the  chronicles  and  saw  that  day  the 
favorite  of  the  harem,  whose  voice  was  like  run- 
ning water  in  the  ear  of  the  thirsty,  her  step  like 
the  bounding  fawn,  her  grace  like  the  swaying 
reed,  her  smile  a  glance  of  the  Great  Spirit.  She 
is  known  in  our  times  as  the  Pimo  Squaw.  She 
leaned  against  a  crazy  mud  wall,  which  she 
appeared  to  prop,  and  was  so  nearly  the  same 
shade  of  clay  that  at  first  the  statuesque  shape 
seemed  carved  in  it.  A  stumpy  figure,  nude  to 
the  waist  draped  in  one  buckskin  skirt.  The 
leathery  skin,  tanned  by  long  exposure  to  the 


322  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

fierce  sun's  beat  and  roughening  wind,  was 
darkly  veined  and  coarse.  To  eyes  accustomed 
to  see  in  woman's  form  the  fairest  of  all  fair- 
ness— 

u  A  thing  to  dream  of,  not  to  tell  "— 

the  sight  is  not  alluring.  She  was  scarcely 
twenty-five  years  of  age ;  but  the  pitiless  climate 
(which  we  are  constantly  called  upon  to  admire) 
had  worn  wrinkles  in  her  face  deep  enough  to 
bury  her  youth  in.  Her  small,  shapely  feet  were 
cased  in  moccasins  ;  the  slim  hands,  idly  resting 
in  her  lap,  were  burnt  to  a  mahogany  color  (the 
cinnamon  tint  entirely  lost)  and  knotted  with  the 
hard  work  of  corn-grinding.  Her  one  ornament 
was  a  sea-shell,  tied  round  her  throat  by  a  deer- 
skin string. 

Nourmahal  had  a  Mongol  cast  of  features — 
narrow  button-hole  eyes,  almost  no  eye-brows, 
high  cheek-bones,  thick  lips,  tattooed  chin.  As 
the  angelic  portion  of  our  party  (delicately 
referring  to  the  writer)  approached  for  nearer 
view,  she  made  no  sign,  except  to  turn  the 
dull  Chinese  eyes,  which  a  short  study  of 
inscriptions  on  tea-boxes  would  give  the  right 
oblique,  and  fix  them  on  us  with  a  tireless, 
unwinking  gaze. 

The  ruins  are  twenty  miles  from  the  villages  of 
the  Pimos,  a  branch  of  the  Pueblo  Indians,  and 
only  twelve  miles  from  the  town  of  Florence  on 
the  South  Pacific  Railroad.  The  wagon  road 
runs  along  the  Gil  a  Valley,  a  level  bottom  of 
varying  width  with  abrupt  scarped  banks  of  earth. 
The  plain  is  of  a  pale  gray  color,  with  a  low  mossy 
grass,  its  monotony  being  relieved  by  groves  of 
mezquit,  a  species  of  acacia  resembling  our  locust, 
but  with  foliage  more  delicate  and  almost  shade- 
less.  The  stunted  trees  grow  branching  from 
the  ground  so  low  as  to  be  nearly  trunkless ; 


The  Ruins  of  Montezumas  Palace.  223 

knotted,  gnarled,  dwarfed,  black  of  bark,  vaster 
of  root  than  of  top,  yet  with  a  certain  grace 
derived  from  the  small  emerald  green  leaves  del- 
icately set  on  trembling  fronds.  Occasionally  a 
val-de-verde  appears,  a  peculiar  arui  striking 
growth  of  green  body,  bark,  leaf  and  limb,  never 
very  large  and  not  over  eight  inches  in  diameter; 
and  here  and  there  is  a  prickly  pear,  twenty 
feet  in  height,  loaded  with  red,  pear-shaped 
fruit. 

The  shifting  outlines  of  the  Tucson  Mountains, 
never  five  minutes  the  same,  are  drawn  in  perfect 
relief  against  a  sky  of  unrivalled  brilliance;  the 
purest  sapphire,  free  from  every  taint  of  mist,  fog, 
or  vapor.  The  exquisite  fineness  of  the  atmos- 
phere shows  clearly  the  high  and  rugged  peaks 
of  the  Sierra  Catarina,  and  one  picture-like  sum- 
mit, called  Pichaco,  overlooks  the  chain  of  hills 
below  through  a  veil  of  dying  blue.  Close  to 
the  river's  brim  the  willow  tosses  its  branches  in 
the  eternal  west  wind,  lightly  as  a  lady's  plume, 
and  bears  a  profusion  of  lilac  flowers  rarely  beau- 
tiful. On  the  sterile  mesa  appears  the  suwar- 
row  (Cereus  Giganteus)  of  a  peculiar  and  fantas- 
tic shape,  and  a  wild  verbena  repeats  thev  shade 
of  the  far-off  hill  purples. 

Miles  away  from  the  dead  cities  we  struck  the 
bed  of  an  ancient  acquia,  very  large  and  per- 
fectly defined,  the  main  artery  by  which  the  river 
bottom,  only  a  mile  or  so  wide  here,  was  irri- 
gated in  former  times.  Mezquit  trees,  appar- 
ently falling  into  decay  from  age,  stand  in  the 
dry,  abandoned  ditches,  whose  various  branches 
may  be  traced  in  every  direction,  a  network  of 
irrigating  canals.  Here  and  there  elevations  in 
the  plain  proclaim  the  existence  of  fallen  walls ; 
and  depressions,  from  which  the  earth  was  used 
to  make  the  adobe  are  close  by.  Nearer  the  city 
of  silence,  immense  quantities  of  broken  pottery 


224  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

strew  the  ground,  an  arrowhead  or  stone  axe 
comes  to  light,  and  the  least  excitable  visitor 
must  admit  that  the  Gila  Valley,  where  desola- 
tion reigns  supreme,  was  once  densely  populated. 
We  have,  in  addition,  the  strong  testimony  of 
adjacent  artificial  mounds,  supposed  to  have  been 
burial  places ;  but  the  mythical  mines  of  silver 
and  gold  laid  down  on  the  oldest  maps,  referred 
to  by  the  oldest  missionaries,  do  not  yet  appear. 
A  popular  theory  has  been  held  that  theCasas 
were  habitations  of  companies  of  miners  who 
worked  undiscovered  placers  hard  by.  Happily 
this  conceit  has  been  exploded. 

The  ruins  stand  on  a  low,  broad  mesa,  or 
table-land,  rising  slightly  from  the  main  road, 
and  are  covered  by  a  thicket  of  mezquit  trees 
not  exceeding  twenty  feet  in  height,  but  conceal- 
ing the  dun-colored  walls  till  we  were  close  on 
them.  Passing  beyond  the  leafy  screen  we  saw, 
within  the  space  of  one  hundred  and  fifty  yards, 
three  buildings.  Two  are  battered  and  decay- 
ing, so  ruinous  as  to  baffle  the  effort  of  the  tour- 
ist to  form  an  idea  of  their  original  size,  the 
shape  being,  as  in  all  these  remains,  a  parallel- 
ogram. Their  walls  were  standing  sufficiently 
to  trace  the  plan  thirty  five  years  ago. 

We  bent  our  steps  to  the  main  building,  larg- 
est and  best  preserved,  and  with  a  keen  sense  of 
disappointment  beheld  the  structure  so  dear  to 
archaeologists  and  known  for  three  centuries  as 
the  House  of  Montezuma.  Though  familiar  by 
picture  and  description,  I  had  thought  to  find 
some  display  of  regal  power  in  architectural 
grace  and  finish ;  remnants  of  mouldings,  broken 
lines  of  cornices,  and  at  least  one  lofty  portal 
through  which  the  tawny  courtiers  might  have 
filed  in  barbaric  pomp  to  salute  the  Rocky 
Mountain  King.  It  is  merely  a  tremendous 
mud  house,  on  which  the  centuries  have  spent 


The  Ruins  of  Montezumas  Palace.  225 

their  strength  in  vain,  standing  in  the  hush  of 
utter  solitude,  battling  time  and  the  elements. 
There  is  nothing  picturesque  about  it.  No 
friendly  lichen,  running  creeper  or  trailing  ivy 
can  live  in  this  dry  dewless  air  and  with  tender 
verdure  clothe  the  nakedness  of  the  ragged  struc- 
ture. Against  the  sand  blast  no  wreathing  vine 
can  cling,  and  in  its  embrace  soften  the  mass  of 
ugliness  harshly  outlined  against  the  bare  and 
brilliant  sky,  unflecked  by  cloud  or  shadow. 
Our  spirits  went  down,  down  before  the  legend- 
ary Palace  of  Montezuma  we  had  come  so  far 
to  see.  For  this  we  had  strained  over  lava  beds, 
through  the  sunburnt  ways  of  the  wilderness, 
across  valleys  of  sand,  sage  desert,  and  grease- 
wood  plain,  breathing,  eating,  drinking  alkali, 
and  wearing  its  dust  like  a  dingy  travelling  suit ! 
Instead  of  poetry  here  was  certainty. 

The  mountain  rim  was  a  refreshment  to  the 
vision.  There  the  aerial  hues,  so  like  the  stuff 
which  dreams  are  made  of,  gave  the  only  ideal 
touch  to  a  scene  forbiddingly  real.  No  hint  of 
beauty  or  excellence  of  workmanship  is  found  in 
a  near  view  of  the  Casa,  which  is  entitled  to 
admiration  only  on  account  of  its  age,  and  to 
a  hold  on  fancy  because  its  origin  and  uses  are 
unknown.  Desolate  and  isolated  now,  time  was 
when  it  was  encircled  by  similar  buildings 
grouped  in  villages  scattered  broadly  over  the 
wide  plateau.  In  every  direction  are  broken 
lines  of  fallen  walls,  oblong  heaps  crumbled 
down  to  the  dust  whence  they  sprung;  and  the 
extent  of  irrigation  must  have  made  the  valley  a 
cultivated  garden,  or  a  field  of  corn  large  enough 
to  sustain  a  vast  population. 

But  there  was  little  time  for  sentiment.  Our 
surveys  must  be  made  in  haste.  The  walls  are 
entirely  adobe  ;  in  no  portion  is  there  any  stone 
used.  Instead  of  the  modern  Spanish-American 


226  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

adobes,  moulded  to  about  six  times  the  size  of  our 
ordinary  bricks,  this  aboriginal  " palace"  is  built 
of  large  blocks  of  concrete  (called  by  Mexicans 
tapia),  three  feet  or  more  in  length,  by  two  feet  in 
width  and  thickness.  They  are  of  irregular  size, 
indicating  that  a  box  or  mould  was  used  in  the 
manufacture  into  which  the  mortar  was  cast 
where  it  was  to  remain  in  the  walls ;  and  as  it 
dried  the  cases  were  moved  along.  A  recent 
chemical  analysis  of  the  concrete  shows  the 
secret  of  its  durability  under  the  wasting  and 
wearing  of  ages  in  a  structure  certainly  a  ruin 
for  three  hundred  years,  and  with  a  pre-Spanish 
existence  of  a  century  and  perhaps  more.  Sev- 
enteen per  cent,  of  the  mortar  is  carbonate  of 
lime.  Probably  lime  was  burned  and  mixed 
with  the  sand  and  gravel  of  the  country,  which 
contains  a  very  adhesive  clay,  tough  and  lasting. 
The  walls  are  perpendicular  within,  slightly 
tapering  without,  four  feet  thick,  facing  the  car- 
dinal points  of  the  compass,  almost  the  true 
meridian.  The  building  was  fifty-eight  feet  long 
and  forty-three  feet  wide,  the  highest  point  of 
the  standing  wall  being  thirty-five  feet.  It  was 
originally  four  or  five  stories  high,  being  about 
eight  feet  from  floor  to  ceiling.  In  the 
centre  of  each  wall  were  narrow  doors  for 
entrance  into  the  main  compartments,  three  feet 
wide,  five  feet  high,  and  growing  narrower  at  the 
top,  except  the  one  in  the  west  front,  which  is 
two  feet  by  seven  or  eight.  Over  each  door  is  a 
)ort-hole  whose  dimensions  I  am  unable  to  give. 
The  Indian's  love  of  dark  houses  is  apparent 
jere ;  the  only  light  admitted  into  the  small 
uinerous  rooms  was  through  these  holes  in  the 
Ijep  walls.  The  central  room,  with  only  one 
opening,  must  have  been  as  dismal  as  a  dungeon. 
It  has  been  surmised  that  this  was  a  sort  of 
watch-tower,  eight  or  ten  feet  higher  than  the 


The  Ruins  of  Montczumas  Palace.  227 

outer  stories,  probably  one  story  above  all  the 
rest  when  the  Casa  was  entire.  Some  of  the  port- 
holes have  been  filled  in  with  mortar  as  though 
the  window,  if  window  it  was,  admitted  too  much 
light 

Father  Font,  who  visited  this  ruin  in  1776, 
writes  :  "  It  is  perceptible  the  edifice  had  three 
stories.  The  Indians  say  it  had  four;  the  last 
being  a  kind  of  subterranean  vault.  For  the 
purpose  of  giving  light  to  the  rooms  nothing  is 
seen  but  the  doors,  and  some  round  holes  in  the 
middle  of  the  walls  which  face  to  the  east  and 
west,  and  the  Indians  said  that  the  Prince,  whom 
they  called  the  '  Bitter  Man,'  used  to  salute  the 
sun  through  these  holes  (which  are  pretty  large) 
at  its  rising  and  setting.  All  the  roofs  are  burnt 
out  except  that  of  one  low  room,  in  an  adjoining 
house,  which  had  beams,  apparently  cedar,  small 
and  smooth,  and  over  them  reeds  of  equal  size 
and  a  layer  of  hard  mud  and  mortar,  forming  a 
very  curious  roof,  or  floor." 

The  different  stories  are  easily  identified  by  the 
ends  of  beams  remaining  in  the  walls,  or  by  the 
holes  into  which  the  beams  projected.  They  are 
round  rafters  of  cedar,  or  sabino,  supporting  the 
floors,  being  perhaps  six  inches  in  diameter  and 
half  a  foot  apart.  The  nearest  mountain  bear- 
ing such  trees  is  many  a  weary  mile  away.  The 
charred  ends  of  beams  prove  that  the  interior 
was  destroyed  by  fire,  but  the  massive  four-foot 
wall  suffered  no  change  by  flaming  floor,  rafter, 
or  roof.  The  trees  were  hacked  by  a  blunt  tool, 
probably  a  stone  hatchet ;  evidently  iron  was 
unknown  to  the  architect  of  Casas  Grandes.  The 
Indigene  substituted  for  it  tempered  copper  and 
tools  of  wrought  obsidian.  A  few  bone  awls,  or 
flakers,  for  making  arrow  heads,  have  been  dug 
out  of  the  gravel,  and  a  metate,  or  corn  grinder, 


228  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

broken  jars  and  a  tomahawk  of  flint,  have  been 
found,  but  there  is  no  tracery  made  by  iron. 

Adobe  walls  are  wonderfully  durable  in  this 
dry,  equable  climate,  and  with  slight  repairs  last  a 
thousand  years.  Disintegration  begins  at  the  base, 
where  moisture  gathers,  and  the  walls,  seamed 
and  furrowed  near  the  earth  by  the  action  of  heavy 
yearly  rains,  are  held  together  merely  by  their 
great  thickness.  Their  inner  surface  is  smoothly 
plastered  with  lime  cement,  little  wrinkled  marks 
standing  as  they  appeared  when  first  dried  after 
the  finish  was  laid  on.  There  is  no  sign  of 
stairway,  and  ascent  was  probably  made  outside 
on  scaling  ladders,  as  the  Pueblos  go  up  their 
terraced  domiciles  throughout  New  Mexico  and 
Arizona.  The  rough  coating  without  is  flaked  off 
in  some  places  by  the  continuous  action  of  war- 
ring winds  which  carry  sand.  Even  more  than 
rain,  this  incessant  agent  is  operating  on  the  old 
dun-colored  adobes,  and  unless  repairs  are  made 
in  the  scarred  and  furrowed  foundations,  this 
most  interesting  of  antiquities  must  before  long 
become  a  shapeless  wreck.  There  can  have  been 
no  considerable  shock  of  earthquake  in  the 
period  during  which  it  has  been  known  to  us ; 
even  a  slight  tremble  would  bring  the  time-worn 
fabric  down  to  hopeless  destruction. 

Standing  on  the  mesa,  the  traveller  sees  in  every 
direction  heaps  of  ruins,  of  which  the  Casas  Gran- 
des  was  the  centre  and  principal.  About  two  hun- 
dred yards  to  the  north -west  is  a  circular  in  clos- 
ure, also  a  ruin.  It  is  supposed  to  have  been  a 
corral  for  cattle,  which,  unless,  as  some  assume, 
it  was  used  as  a  menagerie,  would  make  it  of 
more  recent  date,  as  the  Indians  were  without 
domestic  animals  before  the  conquest.  Archi- 
tectural remains  have  been  well  called  the  bal- 
ance wheels  of  tradition.  After  actual  sight  and 
touch  there  is  no  room  for  dreams  and  visions. 


The  Ruins  of  Monte  zumas  Palace.  229 

Temples  and  towers  proclaim  worship,  sculptures 
hint  of  refinement,  wealth  and  elegant  tastes. 
Coins  tell  of  commerce,  and  frescoes  like  those 
of  Pompeii  and  Rome  are  illuminated  books  of 
Chronicles. 

This  antique  pile  is  expressive  of  a  low  condi- 
tion of  art.  Its  size  is  impressive  when  we  con- 
sider that  it  was  completed  without  the  aid  of 
domestic  animals  or  iron,  but  by  hand  labor 
alone.  The  only  idea  left  in  the  mind  of  the 
visitor  is  that  it  was  designed  to  accommodate 
great  numbers  of  persons;  a  cumbrous  human 
hive.  There  is  no  forest  growth  above  it  by 
which  to  date  the  passage  of  years ;  and  the 
ceaseless  delving  of  the  archaeologist  has  failed 
to  find  a  key,  accepted  by  all  as  the  true  one,  to 
the  age  and  purpose  of  so  remarkable  a  building. 
Excavations  made  on  an  appropriation  by  the 
Legislature  of  Arizona  resulted  in  nothing.  A 
citizen  of  Florence  reports  finding  a  piece  of 
gold  resembling  coin  in  the  debris,  and  it  is  said 
that  a  hollow  sound  has  been  heard  by  those 
jumping  on  the  floor  of  the  inner  room.  Part 
of  the  walls  have  fallen,  which  may  account  for 
the  noise.  That  ghost  is  laid  and  no  voice  or 
breath  of  living  thing  disturbs  the  dreaming  pil- 
grim and  baffled  antiquarian  as  in  mournful  pro- 
cession they  carry  off  their  relics — bits  of  broken 
plaster  and  pottery. 

The  earliest  reporters  describe  eleven  buildings 
in  close  proximity  to  each  other,  and  there  can 
be  no  reason  to  doubt  their  record,  judging  by 
the  high  heaps  of  mud  and  gravel  lying  in  every 
direction  about  the  great  Casa.  Compassing  it 
is  a  prostrate  wall  extending  four  hundred  and 
twenty  feet  from  north  to  south,  and  two  hun- 
dred and  sixty  feet  from  east  to  west,  which  they 
believed  was  a  part  of  the  Casa  itself — a  natural 


230"  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

mistake  which  has  given  many  a  highly  exagger- 
ated idea  of  the  structure  inclosed  by  it. 

The  first  recorded  mention  of  Casas  Grandes  is 
made  in  1540,  by  Captains  Diaz  and  Saldibar, 
who  with  twelve  intrepid  men  marched  from  the 
city  of  Culiacan  and  ascended  the  Gila  as  far  as 
Chichiticale,  or  Red  House,  on  the  border  of  the 
Colorado  Desert.  They  had  from  friendly 
Indians  glowing  descriptions  of  the  seven  cities 
of  Cibola,  in  which  whole  streets  were  said  to  be 
occupied  exclusively  by  workers  in  gold  and 
silver.  "  They  had  sculptured  silver  and  spear 
heads  and  drinking  cups  of  precious  metals." 
Fired  by  these  beguiling  fables  Coronado  led  a 
little  army  of  picked  men,  fifty  soldiers,  a  few 
infantry,  his  particular  frier,  ('s  and  the  monks,  in 
search  of  fairy  land,  the  vanishing  seven  cities  of 
Cibola.  His  secretary  records  that  when  the 
general  passed  through  all  the  inhabited  region  to 
the  place  where  the  desert  begins  and  saw  there 
was  "  nothing  good,"  he  could  not  repress  his 
sadness  notwithstanding  the  marvels  which  were 
promised  further  on. 

The  traveller  of  1 880  has  much  the  same  sen- 
sation as  that  which  smote  the  soul  of  the  dashing 
Coronado  of  1540.  In  the  time  of  the  latter  the 
whole  of  the  North  American  Continent  east  of 
the  Rio  Grande  was  called  Florida.  It  is  not 
surprising  that  much  inaccurate  information  pre- 
vailed regarding  the  geography  of  Nueva  Es- 
pagna,  but  it  is  easy  to  identify  Casas  Grandes 
with  the  "Red  House"  standing  in  a  mezquit 
jungle  on  the  edge  of  the  desert,  the  first  ruin 
seen  on  the  Gila  by  one  ascending  from  its 
mouth.  In  certain  lights  the  walls  have  a  reddish 
tint,  and  again  appear  white  on  account  of  peb- 
bles contained  in  the  plaster. 

In  1 694  Father  Kino  visited  the  Casas  Grandes. 
H/?  heard  traditions  of  the  Pimos  running  back 


The  Ruins  of  Montezuma' s  Palace.  23! 

four  hundred  years ;  it  had  been  a  ruin  for  ages, 
and  was  destroyed  by  fire  in  the  war  with  the 
Apaches.  "  The  principal  room  in  the  middle  is 
four  stories,  the  adjoining  rooms  on  its  four  sides 
are  of  three  stories,  with  walls  so  smooth  and 
shining  that  they  appear  like  burnished  tables. 
At  the  distance  of  an  arquebuss  shot,  twelve  other 
houses  were  to  be  seen,  also  half  fallen,  having 
thick  walls,  and  all  the  ceilings  burnt  except  in 
the  lower  room  of  one  house."  He  mentions 
also  canals  for  irrigation,  "  which  had  capacity  for 
carrying  half  the  water  of  the  river."  The  good 
priest  took  peaceable  possession  of  the  forsaken 
spot,  set  up  the  cross  within  the  dreary  walls  and 
made  the  place  a  holy  shrine  with  the  celebration 
of  mass. 

Of  the  old  descriptions  that  of  Father  Font, 
who  visited  the  scene  in  1779,  is  most  valuable. 
I  regret  not  having  space  for  a  longer  extract 
from  his  journal :  "  The  large  house  or  Palace  of 
Montezuma,"  he  says,  "  according  to  the  histories 
and  meagre  accounts  of  it  which  we  have  from 
the  Indians,  may  have  been  built  some  500 
years  ago ;  for,  as  it  appears,  this  building  was 
erected  by  the  Mexicans  when,  during  their 
transmigration,  the  Devil  led  them  through 
various  countries  until  they  arrived  at  the 
promised  land  of  Mexico  ;  and  in  their  sojourns, 
which  were  knj  ones,  they  formed  towns  and 
built  edifices."  He  further  speaks  of  ruins  in 
every  direction.  "  The  land  is  partially  covered 
with  pieces  of  pots,  jars,  plates,  etc."  He  was 
the  first  one  who  discovered  that  the  outer  wall 
was  a  fortification,  "  a  fence  which  surrounded  this 
house  and  other  buildings."  Within  the  last 
thirty  years  the  Casa  de  Montezuma  has  been 
often  described,  and  so  much  speculation  has 
been  expended  as  to  its  origin  and  uses  that  I 
hesitate  to  push  out  into  that  dark  sea. 


232  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

There  is  a  succession  of  ruined  cities,  forming 
a  continuous  chain  of  evidence,  from  Utah  to  the 
City  of  Mexico.  I  have  examined  many  of  these 
dead  pueblos  and  can  discover  no  essential  in 
which  they  differ  from  each  other,  from  the  living 
pueblos  now  inhabited,  or  from  the  Casas  Grandes. 
All  are  community  houses,  where  a  whole  tribe 
may  dwell,  built  of  adobe  in  the  shape  of  an  ob- 
long square  around  an  open  court.  Inclosing 
this  was  an  outer  wall  or  fortification  with  towers 
at  regular  intervals  for  the  posting  of  sentinels. 
The  old  pueblos  were  built  on  a  table  land  so  as 
to  afford  an  outlook  for  sentries  and  an  oppor- 
tunity for  watching  depredations  on  the  corn 
lands  in  the  valleys  below ;  and  often  at  a  distance 
are  found  the  remains  of  a  circular  watch-tower, 
a  signal  station  near  the  city.  Such  are  the  pre- 
historic vestiges  along  the  McElmo,  Colorado, 
San  Juan  and  the  Rio  Mancos,  and  the  widely 
dispersed  remains  in  the  Ehaco  and  Mancho. 
Such  is  the  solitary  watch-tower  in  the  Canon  of 
the  Hovenweep,  Utah.  The  north  ernmostbuild- 
ings  discovered  in  Arizona  and  Colorado  are 
exact  copies  of  the  Southern  and  Moqui  pueblos, 
varying  with  situation  and  with  the  quality  of 
material  used.  Generally  the  earth  of  the 
country  was  mixed  with  ashes  and  clay.  The 
lack  of  individuality  in  the  Indian  race  gives  you 
the  feeling  that  if  you  see  one  you  have  seen  all ; 
so  it  is  in  regard  to  their  habitations.  The  same- 
ness of  the  remains,  and  their  close  likeness  to 
the  Casas  Grandes  and  the  modern  buildings, 
must  strike  the  most  careless  observer.  Yet  they 
are  not  more  alike  than  the  builders  themselves. 

There  are  few,  if  any  antiquities,  that  have  not 
been  searched  through  and  through  and  reported 
on.  The  hunter,  miner,  scout,  surveyor,  priest  and 
sightseer  have  overlooked  no  hill  or  plain  where 
there  is  a  trace  of  human  dwelling.  Undoubtedly 


The  Ruins  of  Montezuma*  s  Palace.  233 

the  adobe  houses  wherever  found  are  the  work 
of  a  semi  ^civilized,  agricultural  people  with  whom 
the  Spaniards  came  in  conflict,  and  who  are 
described  by  them  as  Pueblo,  or  Town  Indians, 
to  distinguish  them  from  the  nomads  or  wander- 
ing tribes  of  the  primitive  race.  An  immense 
amount  of  romance  has  been  wasted  on  the  old 
mud  houses,  which  makes  them  hardly  less  won- 
derful than  the  enchanted  city  Tiahuanco, 
which  was  built  in  a  single  night  by  an  invis- 
ible hand;  but  the  time  is  come  to  put  out 
wavering  lights  and  to  banish  shifting  shadows. 

I  am  convinced  that  the  Palace  of  Montezuma 
was  designed  as  a  fortress,  a  centre  from  which 
many  villages  radiated  and  to  which  the  inhab- 
itants fled  for  refuge  in  a  last  extremity.  The 
lightness  of  the  floor  rafters  in  the  lower  story 
precludes  the  possibility  that  the  building  was 
used  as  a  granary.  Any  one  of  the  many  rooms 
full  of  grain  must  have  crushed  the  floors,  if  not 
the  walls  themselves.  Again,  it  has  been  declared 
to  have  been  a  temple  for  the  sun  worshippers; 
but  the  smallness  and  multiplicity  of  the  rooms 
and  the  many  doors  and  port  holes  oppose  such 
a  surmise,  though  the  dismal  central  room 
and  the  circular  passages  between  the  rooms 
might  suggest  priestcraft,  and  heathen  rites  and 
sorceries. 

It  may  have  been,  like  the  castle  of  the  middle 
ages,  the  nucleus  around  which  the  city  grad- 
ually grew  up,  but  more  probably  it  rose  from 
the  needs  of  the  citizens,  many  of  whom  must 
have  toiled  in  its  erection.  For  many,  many 
years  the  Apache  has  harried  this  land.  It  is  the 
Indian  law  to  destroy  all  that  he  cannot  carry 
away,  and  the  pottery  is  always  broken,  the 
interiors  are  always  fired.  The  builders  of  adobe 
houses,  wherever  found,  were  open  to  incursions 
of  the  same  enemy  which  still  infests  the  Mex- 


234  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

ican  border.  To  me  these  remains  have  no  new 
meanings.  They  merely  prove  that  the  North 
American  Continent  has  been  inhabited  from 
a  remote  period ;  something  which  I  believe  has 
never  been  disputed. 

The  undated  tradition  is  that  the  spot  which  I 
am  trying  to  describe  is  one  of  the  stopping 
places  of  Montezuma  on  his  southward  march  to 
Anahuac.  All  legends  point  to  an  emigration 
from  north  to  south.  Coming  from  the  ends  of 
the  earth,  or  from  fabled  Azatlan,  the  first  halt 
the  Montezumas  made  was  at  old  Zuni ;  this  was 
the  second  station  ;  the  third  was  near  Chihuahua, 
Mexico,  where  enormous  ruins,  exact  reproduc- 
tions of  these  are  standing  isolated  in  a  luxuriant 
valley,  the  tottering  monuments  of  a  peculiar 
tribe  or  tribes  of  a  bygone  nationality.  Nothing 
is  to  be  learned  from  the  natives  there,  who,  like 
all  Pueblos,  love  to  call  themselves  sons  of  Monte- 
zuma, or  from  the  Mexicans  round  about.  What- 
ever requires  a  moment's  thought  is  dismissed  by 
the  ever-ready,  meaningless,  Quien  sabe  ?  "  Who 
knows  ?" 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

TO   THE   CASAS   GRANDES. 

THE  Casas  Grandes  on  the  Laguna  de  Guz- 
man in  Northwestern  Chihuahua  are  similar  in 
every  respect  to  the  ruined  fortresses  of  New 
Mexico  and  Arizona.  The  points  of  resem- 
blance are  so  close  and  so  numerous  as  to  be 
decisive,  proving  them  to  be  the  work  of  the 
same  people  under  similar,  though  somewhat 
superior,  institutions.  On  my  table  is  an  un- 
broken vase  unearthed  from  this  most  venerable 


Tesuke  Water  Vases. 


To  the  Casas  Grandes.  235 

ruin  of  North  America:  a  veritable  antique, 
rare  and  valuable.  It  is  of  a  light  clay  color, 
glazed  without  and  within.  The  shape,  the 
peculiar  markings  in  geometrical  lines,  white, 
black  and  maroon  red,  prove  the  hand  of  its 
manufacturer.  I  should  recognize  it  instantly 
in  any  collection  as  a  Pueblo  water  jar  of  ancient 
workmanship,  better  made  than  any  which  we 
have  from  the  Pueblos  now.  It  contains  the  fol- 
lowing memorandum  :  "  This  olla  or  tanaja  was 
excavated  from  the  ruins  of  the  Montezuma 
Casas  Grandes  in  the  State  of  Chihuahua  in  the 
year  1864,  and  according  to  Indian  tradition  is 
800  years  old.  These  Casas  Grandes  (great 
houses)  were  reduced  to  ruin,  by  siege,  in  1070." 
This  is  signed,  "William  Pierson,  American 
Consul  in  1873." 

It  is  the  only  whole  jar  and  much  the  finest 
specimen  I  have  ever  seen.  Still  it  is  greatly 
inferior  to  the  coarsest  Wedgwood  china  in  our 
shops.  There  has  never  appeared  a  monument 
or  relic  proving  the  existence  of  a  people  of 
more  advanced  culture  than  the  red  race  with 
which  the  European  came  in  contact.  How  the 
peculiar  civilization  which  this  vase  represents 
came  from  the  North,  as  every  tradition  declares 
it  did,  is  a  question  that  has  been  argued  many 
times  in  many  ways.  Among  a  vanquished, 
declining  people,  without  even  the  lowest  forms 
of  picture-writing,  language  rapidly  alters ;  and 
philologists  tell  us  that  American  languages  are 
the  most  changeful  forms  of  human  speech. 
Legends  soon  become  confused;  the  links  of 
connection  are  easily  lost ;  and  even  in  its  best 
estate  tradition  is  treacherous  as  memory. 
Scholars  have  held  that  the  adobe  houses  are 
traces  of  the  Toltecs,  the  polished  predecessors 
of  the  fierce  and  bloody  Aztecs,  under  whose 
dominion  the  former  broke  and  scattered.  Plausi- 


236  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

ble  theories,  more  or  less  conclusive,  have  per- 
plexed the  student  of  indigenous  races.  One 
solution,  as  soon  as  it  was  suggested,  touched 
me  with  the  force  of  absolute  conviction,  because 
it  was  so  direct  and  simple  an  answer  to  the  puz- 
zling questions  following  an  examination  of  the 
antiquities  of  North  America. 

The  Pueblo  or  town-building  Indians  were  the 
skirmish  line  of  the  Aztec  nation  when  the 
Mexican  Empire  was  in  the  height  of  its  great- 
ness. The  Aztecs  were  restless,  aggressive, 
greedy  of  power  and  insatiate  in  their  lust  for 
dominion.  To  rove  and  to  conquer  was  the 
national  pastime.  The  green  banners  of  Ana- 
huac  floated  defiantly  in  the  tropic  airs  of  the 
remotest  provinces  on  the  Gulf  of  Mexico, 
and  dauntless  warriors  upheld  their  colors  in 
pristine  splendor  along  the  extreme  coasts  of 
Honduras  and  Nicaragua.  They  formed  the 
unshackled,  sovereign  nation,  possessing  the 
highest  civilization  in  North  America,  speaking 
a  language  by  far  the  most  finished  and  elegant 
of  the  native  tongues,  said  to  be  of  exceeding 
richness. 

The  Pueblos,  whom  we  believe  to  be  a  rough 
off-shoot  of  that  stock,  degraded  descendants  of 
haughty  princes,  are  yet  a  self-sustaining  people, 
independent  of  the  Government,  the  only  abor- 
igines among  us  not  a  curse  to  the  soil.  In  some 
old  time  whereof  history  is  silent  and  about 
which  there  are  no  traditions,  nor  even  the  airy 
hand  of  a  misty  legend  to  beckon  us  back  and 
point  the  way,  the  half- civilized  tribes  of  Mexico 
must  have  sought  fresh  fields  for  conquest  and 
occupation.  They  probably  marched  in  detached 
clans  speaking  different  dialects,  but  more  or 
less  united  under  one  central  government,  and 
with  the  arts  and  means  of  instruction  brought 
from  Anahuac  they  set  forth  to  colonize  outly- 


To  the  Casas  Grandes.  237 

ing  countries  to  the  north.  A  glance  at  the 
map  shows  only  one  route  by  which  they  could 
advance.  West  of  the  Sierra  Madre  and  up  the 
Gila  and  its  tributaries,  toward  the  great  canon 
of  the  Colorado,  colonies  were  planted  along  the 
river  banks,  and  possibly  the  emigrant  fraternized 
with  the  native.  Captain  Fernando  Alarcon  dis- 
covered the  Rio  Colorado  in  1 540,  and  passed 
various  tribes  without  being  able  to  communi- 
cate with  them,  except  by  signs,  until  he  reached 
a  people  who  understood  the  language  of  an 
Indian  whom  he  had  brought  from  Mexico. 
From  this  tribe  he  learned  of  a  similar  people, 
far  to  the  eastward,  who  lived  in  great  houses 
built  of  stone.  From  Mexico  the  Southerners 
brought  the  art  of  building  with  adobe  and  with 
stones  laid  in  mud  mortar,  which  alone  distin- 
guishes them  from  the  tribes  dwelling  in  wig- 
wams, shifting  tents  and  lodges  of  buffalo  skins 
and  boughs.  There  was  a  system  of  communi- 
cation between  their  fortified  towns,  worn  foot- 
paths betraying  a  constant  coming  and  going, 
and  deep  trails  furrowed  by  the  tread  of  busy 
feet  through  centuries. 

The  ancient  builders  invariably  chose  com- 
manding positions  overlooking  their  cultivated 
fields  for  their  pueblos,  and  added  story  after 
story  to  the  houses,  usually  terraced  from  with- 
out, where  a  few  defenders  could  defy  almost 
any  number  of  assailants  with  savage  arms. 
Apaches  were  treated  as  barbarian  hordes. 
There  is  no  mention  of  these  Bedouins  until  a 
century  after  Coronado's  day,  from  which  fact 
we  may  infer  that  they  were  kept  at  bay. 

Gradually  the  tide  of  emigration  pressed  up 
to  the  Aztec  Mountains  and  San  Francisco 
Peaks,  but  there  the  march  of  the  victorious 
invader  was  suddenly  stopped  by  a  barrier  ut- 
terly impassable — the  canons  of  the  Colorado 


238  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

and  Chiquito  Rivers,  which,  united,  form  a  gulf 
at  least  300  miles  long,  and  which  in  places  are 
a  mile  in  depth.  It  lay  directly  across  their 
course,  a  stupendous  chasm  which  wings  only 
would  have  enabled  them  to  cross.  No  sea  or 
desert  could  so  effectually  have  hindered  their 
progress  northward.  They  turned  toward  the 
Ei  Jt,  took  possesion  of  the  rich  valleys  of  the 
C  >lorado  and  Chiquito,  where  streets  of  towns 
and  irrigating  canals  are  still  traceable  for  miles, 
and  followed  its  branches  to  their  sources.  All 
the  towns  are  along  the  river.  The  bottom 
lands  are  fertile  with  alluvial  deposits.  There 
are  large  cotton-wood  trees  and  impenetrable 
thickets  of  arrow  and  greasewood  among  the 
numberless  lagoons  and  sloughs  which,  at  the 
annual  rise  of  the  riyer,  are  filled  to  overflowing 
and  irrigate  the  soil.  But  no  vegetation  can 
live  beyond  the  limit  of  these  overflows.  A 
white  efflorescence  covers  the  ground,  where  it 
is  useless  to  plant,  where  nothing  edible  for  man 
or  beast  will  grow. 

On  the  neighboring  streams  the  chiefs  founded 
the  kingdom  of  Cibola,  where  now  we  see  exten- 
-ive  ruins  attesting  the  size  of  the  old  towns,  all 
of  which  were  fortified  and  built  on  the  same 
general  plan.  Old  Tuni  was  the  capital  city,  set 
on  a  hill  of  rock  and  reached  only  by  one  zigzag 
path,  where  a  handful  of  soldiers  could  defy  the 
cavalry  of  the  world.  In  a  similar  condition  the 
ruins  of  the  seven  Moqui  villages  are  found,  and 
North  of  them  is  the  site  of  an  adjacent  colony. 
To  the  north-east  they  moved  from  the  head  of 
Flax  River  to  the  southern  tributaries  of  the  San 
Juan,  the  Canon  de  Chaco  and  the  Valle  de 
Ciiel'y,  "where,"  f-ays  Lieutenant  McCormick, 
"half  a  million  irii  lit  have  lived,"  being  strewn 
wi'.h  the  ruins  of  dead  cities. 

At  last,  by  following  up  the  headwaters  of  the 


I 


To  the  Casas  Grandes.  239 

Rio  de  San  Juan  to  the  Colorado  Mountains, 
they  penetrated  the  Rio  Grande  Valley,  a  fertile 
and  widely  extended  region  destined  to  be  sub- 
dued and  colonized.  From  this  point  their 
imperious  course  was  down  the  valley  from  the 
north,  as  all  traditions  point ;  and,  naturally,  the 
conquerors  built  a  vast  stronghold  at  Taos  to 
protect  that  beautiful  valley  from  attacks  of  the 
wild  tribes,  mainly  Utes — a  gloomy,  forbidding 
citadel  of  savage  aspect,  set  on  a  hill  overlooking 
the  Rio  Grande.  So  strong  a  retreat  is  it  that 
in  1847,  when  the  Mexicans  of  the  modern  vil- 
lage of  Taos  could  no  longer  defend  themselves 
against  the  armies  of  the  United  States,  they  fled 
to  this  abandoned  pueblo,  a  few  miles  distant,  and 
there  sustained  a  protracted  siege,  yielding  fin- 
ally when  provisions  utterly  failed.  The  grim 
and  threatening  fortress  was  never  captured  by 
the  Spaniards,  though  many  times  attacked. 
The  terraces  bristled  with  spears  and  battle-axes, 
through  the  little  windows  arrows  were  show- 
ered, and  stones  and  burning  balls  of  cotton 
dipped  in  oil  were  hurled  from  slings.  The 
lower  story,  a  well-filled  granary — and  the  cis- 
terns within  the  court,  enabled  the  red  men  "  to 
laugh  a  siege  to  scorn." 

The  route  which  we  have  rapidly  sketched 
was  discovered  and  maintained  by  the  armies  of 
many  generations ;  the  changes  described  in  a 
paragraph  were  brought  about  by  wars  lasting 
through  ages.  Well  did  those  migratory  tribes 
know  the  fierce  delight  of  battle  which  thrills 
alike  the  blood  of  the  white  man  and  the  red,  when 
once  within  the  heat  and  fury  of  its  deadly 
charm. 

In  the  course  of  time  the  entire  valley  of  the 
Rio  Grande  from  latitude  37°  to  latitude  32°,  a 
distance  of  over  400  miles,  was  thickly  settled. 
It  must  have  been  a  scene  of  constant  activity, 


240  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

with  its  clusters  of  towns,  whose  streets  are  yet 
plainly  visible  and  may  be  followed  for  miles ; 
and  becoming  the  dominant  nation,  in  the 
main  valley  where  the  villages  are  nearest  to 
each  other,  the  Aztecs  found  it  unnecessary  to 
fortify  their  dwelling  places.  Out-lying  settle- 
ments, such  as  Pecos  and  Grand  Quivira,  in  the 
country  swept  by  Comanches  and  Arapahoes, 
and  Laguna  and  Acoma,  near  the  Navajos,  were 
defended  by  outworks  like  those  in  the  Colorado 
basin. 

Near  El  Paso  are  widespread  ruins  of  the  pre- 
historic epoch,  and  it  is  so  short  a  march  from 
that  crossing  to  the  lovely  and  productive  valley 
of  Rio  Corralites  and  its  lake,  the  Laguna  de 
Guzman,  that  it  is  most  reasonable  to  suppose 
the  cases  on  this  stream  were  built  by  a  colony 
from  that  region.  The  Indians  and  Mexicans 
of  our  day  are  exactly  right  in  asserting  that  the 
"  great  houses  "  are  the  work  of  Montezumas 
who  came  from  the  North,  and  at  various  stations 
fortified  themselves  against  the  roving  tribes.  So 
it  comes  that  the  Town  Builders  of  New  Mexico 
and  Arizona,  who  are  without  history  or  hiero- 
glyphic writing,  have  no  record  or  even  legend 
of  the  dim  and  distant  starting  point  when  the 
exodus  from  Mexico  began.  They  brought  a 
species  of  civilization  quite  foreign  to  the  nomads 
who  confronted  them,  battled  for  supremacy,  and 
disputed  their  sway.  The  civilization  was  nec- 
essarily inferior  to  that  of  the  source  whence 
it  sprung.  This  is  the  condition  in  all  migratory 
movements.  The  wealthy,  cultured  classes  are 
conservative,  slow  to  change;  the  dissatisfied 
spirits,  adventurers  with  little  to  leave  or  to  take, 
strike  out  of  the  beaten  paths  in  hope  of  better- 
ing their  fortunes. 

The  colonial  beginnings  were  a  poor  represen- 
tation of  the  splendors  of  Tezcuco  where  North 


7??  the  Casas  Grandes.  241 

American  civilization,  under  the  commanding 
genius  of  the  second  Montezuma,  reached  its 
height.  But  the  pilgrims  brought  with  them  glo- 
rious memories.  They  must  have  seen  the  sacred 
city  Cholula,  with  its  400  temples,  its  huge  pyra- 
mid, wrought  by  the  giant  Haloc,  nearly  200  feet 
high,  the  sides  measuring  450  yards  at  its  base.  It 
was  a  terraced  tower,  a  landmark,  a  beacon  and  a 
shrine  to  all  Anahuac,  where  the  smoke  from 
the  undying  altar-fires  went  up  as  incense  to  the 
gods,  new  every  morning  and  fresh  every  even- 
ing. There  were  no  writhing  victims  on  that  hill 
of  sacrifice ;  the  gentle  Quetzelcoatt  delighted 
not  in  blood  ;  his  offerings  were  bread  and  roses 
and  all  sweet  perfumes.  The  townsmen  in  their 
new  homes  built  council-houses,  meagre  and 
poverty-stricken  compared  with  the  Southern 
temples,  and  kindled  the  sacred  fires.  Each  vil- 
lage had  one  or  more  of  these  estufas,  where 
holy  rites  were  conducted  in  the  utmost  secrecy. 
A  priesthood  of  chosen  warriors,  consecrated  to 
the  ministry,  watched  the  altar-fire,  and  it  was 
never  suffered  to  die  out. 

In  all  probability  the  later  emigrants  brought 
with  them  the  Montezuma  idol.  Possibly  some 
had  been  in  the  kneeling  ranks  of  those  who 
kissed  the  earth  at  the  sound  of  conch  and  ata- 
bal  which  heralded  the  approach  of  the  great 
king,  the  child  of  the  sun.  Hardly  had  they 
dared  to  lift  their  eyes,  before  the  splendor  of  the 
canopy  of  green  featherwork  fringed  with  spark- 
ling pendants,  which  shaded  his  jewelled  plumes. 
They  could  not  fail  to  remember  the  floating 
robes  of  gorgeous  dyes,  the  blazing  arms  making 
the  glance  dizzy  with  the  shining  of  precious 
stones  ;  and,  best  of  all,  that  princely  presence  in 
the  midst  of  worshipping  subjects,  who  held  them- 
selves but  as  dust  beneath  the  golden  soles  of 
the  royal  sandals.  They  could  not  forget  the 


242  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

wall  of  orbed  shields  about  his  sacred  person, 
the  keen  sparkle  of  burnished  spear  tips,  the  fly- 
ing flags  of  various  colors  which  the  Indian 
loves  so  well,  and  the  shouts  of  thousands  on 
thousands  of  loyal  subjects  who  counted  not 
their  lives  dear  unto  themselves  but  for  their 
service  to  their  emperor.  The  all-conquering 
Montezuma  was  at  first  only  a  proud  memory. 
By  degrees  a  halo  and  a  light  appeared  round  the 
name  of  the  king  of  kings.  Men  love  to  trace 
their  descent  back  to  some  storied  greatness,  and 
all  barbarous  nations  delight  to  associate  their 
origin  with  the  deities.  The  yearning  to  be  as 
gods,  is  one  of  the  instinctive  impulses  of  the 
human  heart.  It  began  in  Eden  and  is  as  old  as 
the  first  man. 

From  reverence  of  the  compelling  spirit  which 
left  its  imprint  on  vast  regions,  various  tribes  and 
long  periods  of  time,  it  is  easy  to  pass  to  adora- 
tion. The  valley  of  the  Rio  Grande  was  once  a 
valley  of  gods ;  they  breathed  in  the  winds, 
frowned  in  the  storms;  their  wrath  was  the 
earthquake  and  their  smile  was  fair  weather. 
The  central  idea  ceaselessly  recurring  in  the 
pantheistic  religion  of  the  Pueblos  of  the  nine- 
teenth century  is  the  shining  figure  of  Monte- 
zuma, and  their  belief  in  his  return  is  the  dearest 
of  all  their  faiths.  As  in  the  Greek  legends,  we 
cannot  define  the  line  between  myth  and  history, 
but  we  are  forced  to  believe  so  widespread  a 
religion  must  have  had  a  beginning  remote  from 
the  degraded,  broken-hearted  creatures  who  pray 
to  him  daily.  The  dim  memories  of  a  great  past 
never  quite  fade  away  from  among  any  people. 
The  dreamy,  mythical,  departed  grandeur  of 
their  ancestors  has  led  the  Pueblos  to  the  hope 
of  a  restoration ;  for  with  them  the  vague  past 
and  the  indefinite  future  are  both  better  than  the 
dull,  tame  present.  The  hope  in  every  breast, 


To  the  Casas  Grandes.  243 

slow  to  die,  if  indeed  it  ever  dies,  looks  to  a  regen- 
eration, a  lifting  up  of  the  bowed  race  so  merci- 
lessly stricken  down  by  the  Spaniards.  The 
caciques  who  guard  the  sacred  fires  watch  at 
the  daybreak  for  the  second  coming  of  the  law- 
giver, prophet  and  priest,  and  pray  with  faces 
toward  the  sun-house  where  he  takes  his  kingly 
rest  in  the  abode  of  his  fathers.  In  the  golden 
dawn  of  some  morning,  fairest  where  all  are  fair, 
he  shall  push  back  the  curtains  of  his  tabernacle 
intolerably  bright,  and  with  roll  of  drums,  music 
of  reeds  and  beauty  of  banners  shall  return  to  his 
own  again. 

It  is  the  tendency,  even  in  carefully  recorded 
annals,  to  make  one  man  the  doer  of  all  heroic 
deeds.  The  unnamed  dead  live  in  the  life  of  one 
king  of  men.  The  lesser  lights  wane  and  pale 
before  its  splendor,  and  finally  all  mingle  in  a 
resplendent  focus,  and  one  immortal  stands  for- 
ever the  representative  of  the  epoch,  a  sceptred 
deity.  Such  are  the  demigods  of  Southern  Eu- 
rope: such  is  the  fair-haired  Odin  of  the  mead- 
drinking  warriors  in  sheepskin  and  horsehide; 
such  is  King  Arthur,  gone  away  under  promise 
to  return  from 

The  island  valley  of  Avilion, 
Where  falls  not  hail,  or'rain,  or  any  snow, 
Nor  ever  wind  blows  loudly. 

And  such  is  the  Messiah  of  the  Town  Builders, 
brother  of  the  sun,  equal  of  the  one  Omnipotent 
God,  uncreated  and  eternal,  whose  name  it  is 
death  to  utter. 

Tried  by  the  delicate  test  of  language,  there  is 
no  analogy  between  the  modern  Town  Builder 
and  the  Mexican  of  the  South ;  but  this  is  not 
conclusive.  Centuries  of  changing  environment 
work  miraculous  changes  in  any  people.  How 
much  is  the  modern  Briton  like  his  ancestor,  the 
cave  dweller,  clad  in  skins  of  the  beasts  which 


244  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

almost  shared  his  den,  living  on  roots  and  bow- 
ing down  at  strange  altars  ?  Even  in  the  same 
generation,  in  the  best  age  of  the  most  enlight- 
ened of  kingdoms,  how  much  does  the  Iiish 
gentleman  resemble  his  degraded  tenant,  the 
peat-digger?  Nay,  they  can  scarcely  compre- 
hend each  other's  speech.  Of  the  heroes,  num- 
bered by  hundreds  of  thousands,  who  upheld  our 
victorious  banner  during  the  great  Rebellion,  how 
many  names  will  remain  at  end  of  the  year  2880? 
Possibly  one.  The  least  observant  traveller 
through  the  country  of  the  Pueblos  must  notice 
that  it  has  changed  for  the  worse  since  the  "great 
houses"  were  built.  They  stand  on  the  rim  of 
the  Colorado  Desert,  and  if  we  accept  the  theory 
of  the  geologists  that  this  is  the  dry  bed  of  an 
inland  sea,  the  climate  must  once  have  been  very 
unlike  what  it  is  now — waterless  ten  months  of 
the  year,  and  at  summer  noon  as  hot  and  as  sti- 
fling as  the  air  of  a  limekiln.  Scientists  unite  in 
testifying  that  the  rainfall  west  of  the  Rio  Grande 
is  much  less  than  formerly.  The  present  streams 
are  shrunken  threads  of  those  which  once  flowed 
in  their  channels  when  forests  were  more  abun- 
dant. Northern  Arizona  has  hills  whose  bases 
are  covered  with  dead  cedar  trees,  immense  belts 
untouched  by  fire,  proving  that  the  conditions 
friendly  to  the  growth  of  vegetation  are  restricted 
to  narrowing  limits.  Spots  that  have  been  pro- 
ductive are  barren ;  springs  gushed  from  the 
ground  which  at  present  is  dry  and  parched,  and 
an  agricultural  people  has  lived  where  now  no 
living  being  could  maintain  existence.  Every- 
thing indicates  that  this  region  was  formerly 
better  watered.  Many  rivers  of  years  ago  are 
now  rivers  of  sand,  and  the  Gila  at  its  best,  after 
gathering  the  confluent  streams,  San  Pedro  and 
Salado,  is  not  so  large  in  volume  as  an  Indiana 
creek.  Ethnologists  try  to  prove  that  the 


To  the  Casas  Grandes.  245 

Town  Builders  came  from  the  extreme  North, 
perhaps  originally  from  Kamtchatka,  and  that 
the  adobe  houses  and  Montezuma  worship  were 
of  indigenous  growth,  founded  by  the  monarch 
who  bears  the  proudest  name  in  Indian  history. 
There  are  no  Pueblos  North  of  the  thirty- 
seventh  parallel,  and  the  decline  of  the  race 
began  long  before  the  Spanish  invasion.  It  will 
be  remembered  that  the  Casas  Grandes  was  a  roof- 
less, crumbling  ruin,  without  a  history  more 
than  300  years  ago.  The  Pueblos  must  have 
been  a  mighty  nation  in  the  prime  of  their 
strength,  and  legends  of  their  ancient  glory 
before  they  passed  under  the  hated  Spanish  yoke 
are  cherished  among  the  different  tribes.  Re- 
duced  as  they  were  in  numbers  and  power,  their 
battle  for  freedom  was  a  long  and  gallant  strug- 
gle. They  were  finally  brought  into  subjection, 
even  to  the  Moquis  who  lived  perched  in  tiny 
houses  on  scarred,  seamed  cliffs  of  volcanic  rock, 
where  nature's  fires  are  burnt  out,  in  a  barren 
country,  arid  and  inhospitable,  absolutely  worth- 
less to  white  men. 

Never  was  life  so  lonely  and  cheerless  as  in 
the  desolate  hovels  of  the  Moquis.  Their  land 
is  not  a  tender  solitude,  but  a  forbidding  desola* 
tion  of  escarped  cliffs,  overlooking  wastes  of 
sand  where  the  winds  wage  war  on  the  small 
shrubs  and  venturesome  grasses,  leaving  to  the 
drouth  such  as  they  cannot  uproot.  A  few 
scrubby  trees,  spotting  the  edge  of  the  plain  as 
if  they  had  looked  across  the  waterless  waste 
and  crouched  in  fear,  furnish  a  little  brushwood 
for  the  fires  of  the  Moquis,  who  are  fighting  out 
the  battle  for  existence  that  is  hardly  worth  the 
struggle.  Fixed  habitation  anywhere  implies 
some  sort  of  civilization.  The  flinty  hills  are 
terraced,  and  by  careful  irrigation  they  manage 
to  raise  corn  enough  to  keep  body  and  soul 


246  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

together.  The  seven  villages  within  a  circuit  of 
ten  miles  have  been  isolated  from  the  rest  of  the 
world  through  centuries,  yet  they  have  so  little 
intercourse  with  each  other  that  their  tribal  lan- 
guages, everywhere  subject  to  swift  mutations, 
are  entirely  unlike.  Diminutive,  low-set  men 
wrapped  in  blankets  passively  sitting  on  the  bare, 
seared  rocks  in  the  sun,  are  the  ghastly  proprie- 
tors of  a  reservation  once  the  scene  of  busy 
activities.  They  number  only  1,600  souls; 
shreds  of  tribes  almost  exhausted,  surrounded 
by  dilapidated  cities  unquestionably  of  great 
antiquity.  The  sad  heirship  of  fallen  greatness 
is  written  in  the  emptiness  of  their  barren  estates. 
Fragments  of  pottery  are  profusely  scattered 
about ;  and  deeply-worn  foot-paths  leading  from 
village  to  village,  down  the  river  bank  and  wind- 
ing up  to  the  plain,  mark  the  ancient  thorough- 
fares which  are  now  slightly  trodden  or  utterly 
deserted. 

How  the  Indians  were  enslaved  and  driven  to 
the  mines,  and  how  they  perished  there  by  thou- 
sands, is  a  matter  of  familiar  history.  They 
were  an  abject  and  heart-broken  people  after  the 
Conquest,  and  their  decline  still  goes  steadily  on. 
Whole  tribes  are  extinct.  Others  have  united 
with  each  other  for  safety,  and  within  the  mem- 
ory of  citizens  of  Santa  Fe  the  feeble  remnant 
of  the  tribe  at  Pecos  joined  that  at  Jemez,  which 
speaks  the  same  language. 

After  all,  the  question  is  not  so  much  whence 
they  come  as  whithei  they  go.  The  human  family 
is  never  at  rest ;  its  condition  is  one  of  change. 
From  the  beginning  nations  and  peoples  have 
come  and  gone — vanished,  where  ?  Who  knows  ? 
Who  cares  ?  They  moved  forward  in  the  resist- 
less march,  served  the  end  for  which  they  were 
created,  died  and  were  forgotten.  They  come 
like  shadows,  so  depart.  Across  these  desolate 


Pueblo  Wristlets,  Moccasins,  etc. 


To  the  Casas  Grandes.  247 

Rocky  Mountain  ranges  a  turbulent  stream  of 
humanity  once  ebbed  and  flowed  in  perpetual 
unrest.  Then  there  were  tribes  chasing,  tribes 
fleeing,  nation  rising  up  against  nation,  scattering, 
absorbing,  driving  each  other  into  annihilation  ; 
and  the  hills  echoed  the  triumphant  music  of  the 
scalp  dances  over  the  graves  of  slain  thousands. 
The  history  of  those  mighty  turmoils  and  revo- 
lutions must  remain  forever  unwritten.  The 
present  aborigines  are  but  a  forlorn  wreck  of 
what  they  were  in  the  long  ago,  when  mountain 
princes  from  the  South  were  supreme  rulers  in  a 
realm  of  confederacies,  whose  boundaries  cannot 
be  measured. 

The  civilization  of  the  Town  Builders  is  not 
so  much  overthrown  as  it  is  worn  out.  Their 
bows  are  broken,  their  fires  burn  low ;  and  the 
sluggish,  stolid  sons  of  Montezuma  creep  at  a 
petty  pace  "  along  the  way  to  dusty  death."  The 
inroads  of  warring  bands  are  not  fatal  as  their 
own  system  of  communism.  A  closely-kept 
people  must  become  effete ;  and  marriage  within 
the  forbidden  degrees,  for  ages  on  ages,  produces 
a  diminutive,  emasculate  growth.  In  the  tribes 
most  isolated,  where  race  distinctions  are  sharply 
drawn,  this  blood  degeneration  is  most  apparent. 
Very  many  are  scrofulous,  and  albinos  with  pink 
eyes  and  wiry,  white  hair  (strange  sights !)  are 
frequent  among  the  Zunis  and  Moquis.  Physi- 
cians tell  us  that  it  is  a  species  of  American 
leprosy,  consequent  on  the  poverty  of  blood 
through  lack  of  alien  infusion. 

The  weakening  of  this  most  interesting  na- 
tionality resembles  the  quiet  decline  of  one 
stricken  in  years.  As  in  the  empire,  so  in  the 
individual ;  according  to  the  predetermined  doom 
it  cannot  last,  another  must  have  its  place.  A 
peculiar  people,  utterly  lacking  in  self  asser- 
tion, through  whole  decades  living  in  servitude 


248  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

under  an  enforced  religion,  they  have  run  their 
race,  worked  out  their  destiny,  and  in  the  de- 
crepitude of  extreme  old  age,  ruins  and  tribes, 
the  dead  and  the  dying,  are  crumbling  away 
together. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

A   FRONTIER   IDYL. 

OUR  picnic  was  in  the  month  of  May  and  we 
started  from  Santa  Fe  in  the  early  morning.  On 
three  sides  the  drowsy  old  town  is  guarded  by 
mountains  royal  with  purple  and  glittering  with 
gold.  Thirty  miles  away  one  snowy  peak 
seemed  an  airy  tent  let  down  out  of  heaven,  and 
across  it  the  breeze  blows  as  freshly  as  airs 
across  Eden  when  the  world  was  young. 

The  road  wound  beside  the  little  river  Santa 
Fe,  whose  waters  go  softly,  after  rippling  down 
in  icy  cascades  from  a  lake  pure  as  Tahoe, 
formed  by  melting  snows  from  the  mountain  top. 
Along  its  margin  the  red  willow  tosses  its 
branches  lightly  as  a  lady's  plume,  and  back  in 
the  hill  country  the  pine-trees  sigh  to  each  other 
their  never  ceasing  song.  Over  the  rocks 
clambering  goats  look  down  and  shake  their 
beards  at  the  traveller,  and  the  tinkle  of  a  bell 
falls  pleasantly  on  the  ear  as  Mexican  boys  drive 
their  flocks  to  the  river ;  and  where  the  sheep 
are  drinking  an  Indian  woman  carrying  a  black 
jar  on  her  head,  erect  and  stately,  comes  to  wash 
her  poor  rags  in  the  stream. 

It  is  all  like  the  old  Bible  pictures.  The 
somber  landscape  though  sadly  lacking  color  is 
serene  and  pastoral, — so  rilled  with  the  beauty 
of  peace  and  restful  silence  we  thought  of  the 


A  Frontier  Idyl.  249 

ancient  pilgrims  journeying  in  the  shining  white 
light  of  the  Delectable  Mountains,  and  their  talk 
with  loving  shepherds  by  the  wayside.  No  fear 
of  rain  to  spoil  our  pleasure  ;  there  will  not  be 
one  drop,  nor  is  there  even  dew.  Yesterday  we 
breathed  balm  and  incense ;  to-morrow  we  know 
will  be  just  like  to-day.  The  south  wind  has 
"  quieted  the  earth,"  and  the  blue  overhead  is 
without  spot  of  cloud,  vapory  mist  or  fog. 

Our  party  was  quite  large.  In  advance  a  well 
mounted  Lieutenant,  in  the  glory  of  his  first 
shoulder  straps,  rode  close  to  the  bridle  rein  of  a 
young  girl  whose  flying  veil  gave  short  glimpses 
of  a  beautiful  face  lighted  with  eyes  of  radiant 
hazel  and  the  brightest-smiles.  They  were  a  pair 
of  lovers,  loved  by  us  at  first  sight.  In  an 
ambulance  came  a  stout  lady  with  color  rather 
high  than  delicate,  whose  unhappy  bonnet  would 
not  stick  to  her  head  but  kept  slipping  down  her 
back.  Beside  her  sat  a  weak  woman  from  Illi- 
nois, born  tired  and  unable  to  find  time  to  rest 
since  that  wearisome  date,  having  barely  life 
enough  to  be  proud  of  her  ten-year-old  Rosa  as 
though  children  were  the  rarest  things  in  the 
world.  On  a  little  burro,  or  donkey,  was  a 
school  teacher  without  special  escort,  but  looked 
after  by  a  dry  old  bachelor  who  had  one  romance 
in  his  life  and  still  wore  the  miniature  of  a  face, 
dearly  loved  and  early  lost,  which  has  been  only 
dust  thirty  years.  For  the  old  love's  sake  he 
treated  all  women  with  delicate  reserve,  seeing 
in  them  kinship  to  the  lost  ideal  they  in  some 
sort  represent.  A  dream  unbroken,  for  where 
death  sets  his  seal  the  imprint  is  eternal  and 
endureth  forever.  Then  there  rode  along  a 
blonde  and  pensive  artist,  the  author  of  many 
rejected  manuscripts,  who  carried  sketching 
paper  and  a  neat  box  of  pencils.  He  wore  his 
hair  long  and  boots  small,  smoked  cigarettes  in- 


250  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

cessantly,  and  eyed  the  gay  Lieutenant  in  bitter- 
ness of  soul.  Several  light  carriages  whirled 
past  us ;  and  Brown,  the  photographer,  dashed 
by  on  his  own  buckboard  drawn  by  gallant  gray 
mules.  I  had  only  time  to  notice  the  stranger 
beside  him  had  the  blackest  eyes  and  wore  a 
diamond  ring  of  unusual  size  and  brilliance 
which  blazed  in  the  sunlight  as  he  courteously 
lifted  his  hat.  Among  the  last  to  appear  was  an 
alumnus  from  Colorado  College,  who  had  elec- 
trified the  whole  board  of  trustees  with  his 
graduating  speech  entitled,  "The  Centennial 
State — a  Nation's  Benediction."  This  callow 
youth  had  made  the  eastern  tour,  had  a  nodding 
acquaintance  with  the  crowned  heads  of  Boston, 
•and  in  conscious  superiority  overshadowed  his 
companion,  the  Baptist  minister,  one  of  the 
meekest  spirits  that  ever  starved  its  way  to 
heaven. 

The  army  ambulance  moved  slowly  through 
the  sandy  red  soil  but  we  did  not  care;  the 
mountains — how  grand  they  are ! — were  a  per- 
petual delight.  The  fineness  of  the  atmosphere 
gave  exquisite  tints  to  the  near  foothills  and  the 
vast  horizon.  Clusters  of  wild  verbenas  purpled 
the  plain — a  deeper  shade  of  the  far  away  hill 
purples — and  strange  flowers,  yellow  and  pink, 
nestled  in  the  short,  moss-like  grass.  They 
never  felt  dew  or  rain,  yet  they  did  not  appear 
stunted  or  starved,  but  looked  up  brightly  in  the 
sterile  sand  as  from  a  garden  bed. 

Now  and  then  a  Pueblo  Indian  strode  silently 
across  our  way,  and  a  Mexican  in  picturesque 
striped  blanket  saluted  us  in  Spanish  fashion 
with  a  " Buenos  dias  senoras"  as  he  drove  his 
cruelly  loaded  donkey  toward  the  city.  Lazy 
Mexicans  squatted  in  rows  sunned  themselves 
again  jt  the  low  walls  of  their  houses;  and  on  a 
chimney  a  flock  of  pigeons  tamely  perched,  and 


A  Frontier  Idyl.  251 

watched  the  movements  of  a  mower  cutting  the 
grass  which  grew  scantily  on  the  flat  mud  roof  of 
his  miserable  hut. 

When  we  reached  the  chosen  ground  a  fire 
was  already  kindled  from  the  resinous  boughs  of 
the  pinon,  and  lovers  were  straying  off  in  shady 
places  to  find  out  what  words  the  daisies  are 
saying  to  youth  and  beauty. 

Brown,  the  photographer,  introduced  his  guest, 
a  fine  old  Spaniard  named  Oreto.  He  wore  the 
easy  air  of  a  man  familiar  with  good  society,  and 
the  lofty  courtesy  which  marks  the  true  Castilian, 
I  may  say  the  true  gentleman,  anywhere.  He 
claimed  to  be  hidalgo — literally,  son  of  a  Goth — 
by  which  is  meant  pure  Catholic  Spanish  blood, 
without  a  taint  of  Jew  or  Moor ;  was  educated 
at  Salamanca,  and  by  training  conservative  was 
quick  to  denounce  Castelar  and  his  politics  as 
highly  pernicious.  In  a  quiet  way  he  was  a 
great  talker ;  the  flashing  eyes  alone  betrayed 
the  intensity  of  his  feeling,  and  as  no  one  entered 
into  debate  with  him,  he  fell  to  extolling  the 
glory  of  old  Castile.  Gradually  the  whole  party 
was  attracted  to  him,  and  he  became  the  centre 
of  a  circle  of  interested  listeners. 

The  fair  rider  with  fluffy  curls  blown  by  the 
mountain  breeze  against  the  arm  she  leaned  on, 
bent  forward  and  asked,  "  Why  leave  your  own 
country  for  this  wild  New  World  ?  " 

"It  is  long  to  tell  the  state  troubles  which 
drove  me  from  home  and  made  me  a  wanderer, 
for  out  of  Spain  every  land  is  exile ;  too  long  for 
even  a  summer  day." 

"  But  not  too  long  for  our  interest,"  she 
answered  with  a  charming  animation  ;  "  you  are 
alone  in  life,"  she  added  with  a  glance  at  the 
band  of  mourning  crape  on  his  sombrero. 

"  Catalina  and  my  ninita  are  with  the  saints," 
«— he  crossed  his  breast  reverently.  "  When  J 


252  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

laid  them  in  the  vault  at  Valladolid  my  heart 
felt  heavy  and  cold.  I  thought  the  long  voyage 
and  sight  of  new  places  might  warm  it,  and  I 
might  find  some  diversion,  or  as  our  neighbors 
over  the  Pyrenees  say  '  distraction,'  by  imitating 
my  ancient  countryman  in  a  chase  after  'the 
fountain  of  youth. '  ' 

"  That  is  in  our  own  hearts*"  said  Romeo, 
with  an  arch  glance  at  Juliet. 

"  Yes,  so  experience  teaches.  I  am  last  of  my 
name  and  house,  and" — his  voice  sunk  mourn- 
fully— "  I  had  buried  the  wife  of  my  youth,  whom 
I  loved  with  a  great  love,  after  we  had  lived 
together  twenty  years." 

He  sighed  and  turned  his  eyes  toward  the 
mountain-top  shining  like  silver  in  the  keen, 
clear  light,  and  the  artist  fell  to  sketching  Oreto's 
profile. 

"  Time  is  the  great  consoler,"  said  the  languid 
Illinoisian,  trying  to  adapt  her  harsh  English  to 
the  spoken  music  of  the  stranger.  A  southern 
sky  makes  a  gentle  voice,  and  the  Spanish  tongue 
has  a  matchless  trick  of  melting  all  it  touches 
into  a  melody. 

"La  SeTiora  is  most  kind,  but  it  is  too  late ; 
the  heart  has  no  second  spring.  Do  you  see  the 
white  line  down  the  mountain-side?  "  he  asked, 
abruptly  changing  the  subject  evidently  painful 
to  dwell  upon. 

"  Yes,  it  is  a  brook  rising  in  a  spring,  cold  as 
ice,  clear  as  glass." 

"  Then,  instead  of  my  dull,  sad  story  let  me  tell 
you  the  tradition  of  the  Blue  Fountain,  the  name 
of  the  spring, — Fontaine -bleu  ^  as  the  French 
Fathers  used  to  call  it." 

'*  By  all  means;  a  story,  a  story  !  "  the  ladies 
crijd  in  chorus. 

"  You  do  me  proud,"  said  Oreto  with  a  sweep- 


A  Frontier  Idyl.  253 

ing  bow,  "  and  since  you  honor  me  with  your 
attention  I  promise  not  to  weary  it." 

We  disposed  ourselves  in  various  attitudes 
about  the  speaker.  The  rising  generation  gath- 
ered in  graceful  groups  under  the  stunted  pines, 
and  the  setting  generation  sat  on  buffalo  robes 
and  cushions  against  the  gnarled  and  twisted 
trunks  of  the  pinones.  Little  Rosa  was  coaxed 
to  her  mother's  lap,  and  the  stout  lady  reclined 
on  the  back  seat  of  the  ambulance,  loosened  her 
bonnet  strings  and  made  herself  extremely  com- 
fortable while  we  listened  to  the 

LEGEND  OF  THE  BLUE  FOUNTAIN. 

"Once  upon  a  time,"  the  Spaniard  began,  with 
his  grave  smile,  "away  to  the  North  in  the 
country  you  call  Montana  lived  a  young  Indian 
hunter,  tall  and  straight  and  very  handsome. 
From  boyhood  he  had  heard  stories  of  happy 
hunting-grounds  where  the  pasturas  were  always 
fresh  and  game  was  always  in  sight.  So  one 
bitter  cold  morning  he  put  on  his  snow-shoes 
and  fur  mittens,  wrapped  himself  in  his  warmest 
bearskin,  and  struck  southward,  following  the 
stony  mountain  ranges  till  he  reached  this  lone- 
some region." 

"  Did  he  travel  all  alone  ?  "  asked  little  Rosa. 

"  Only  the  travelling  winds  went  with  him. 
But  he  did  not  know  what  fear  is,  though  at 
night  he  heard  the  coyote's  cry,  the  bellowing 
of  the  bison  and  the  howl  of  the  prairie  wolf. 
The  sun,  which  he  worshipped,  shone  friendly  all 
the  way ;  gradually  the  breeze  blew  softer,  the 
earth  grew  warmer  and  greener.  After  one  long 
day's  march  he  drank  deep  of  the  spring  in  yon 
hillside,  laid  his  bent  bow  and  quiver  of  arrows 
on  the  rock,  and  went  to  sleep  in  the  soft  warm 
sand  by  the  Blue  Fountain. 


254  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

"An  Indian  warrior  sleeps  lightly,  and  in  his 
slumber  appeared  a  form — a  woman's,  such  a 
shape  as  is  seen  nowhere  but  in  dreams  and 
Andalusia."  The  stranger  paused  and  looked 
dreamily  on  the  ground  like  one  busy  with 
memory,  and  in  sympathy  I  thought  of  the  lost 
Catalina  and  the  little  one  lying  in  the  gloomy 
vault  of  Valladolid.  We  respected  his  silence, 
and  after  a  moment  he  continued : 

"  The  spirit  spoke  to  the  dreamer  in  words  of 
infinite  tenderness,  and  appeared  to  watch  and 
guard  him.  On  waking  he  took  a  long  draught 
of  the  cool  snow  water,  and  gazed  searchingly 
into  its  blue  depths." 

"Was  it  really  blue  ?  "  broke  in  Rosa. 

"Sky  blue  and  silver,"  said  the  Castilian, 
adding  one  of  the  endearing  diminutives  in  which 
his  language  is  so  rich  and  which  I  did  not  quite 
comprehend.  "  Many  times  he  tried  to  catch  a 
glance  of  the  fairy  face  which  came  into  his  sleep, 
making  it  better  than  any  waking.  Long  he 
gazed  into  the  watery  mirror ;  it  reflected  only 
his  own  tawny  face  and  the  spotless  sky  above 
it.  The  white  sand  boiled  from  unknown  depths 
below,  bubbles  came  to  the  top  and  broke  on 
the  stony  brim,  but  the  ceaseless  gush  and  flow 
of  the  waters  was  a  chime  in  his  ears  without 
meaning. 

"  He  lingered  about  this  spot,  so  runs  the  tale, 
many  weeks,  praying  for  the  appearance  of  the 
water  maiden.  She  came  into  his  sleep  but 
never  blest  his  waking  eyes,  and  when  the  rainy 
season,  which  is  so  very  dreary,  set  in,  the  disap- 
pointed youth  went  back  to  his  tribe.  The 
vision  haunted  him ;  in  vain  he  tried  to 
shake  it  ofT;  the  vega,  so  lone,  so  dim,  so  untrod- 
den, was  filled  with  strange  enchantment.  The 
brook  went  flowing  through  his  memory,  glanc- 
ing now  in  sun,  now  in  shadow,  as  it  gushed 


A  Frontier  Idyl.  255 

from  the  mountain  side,  vanishing  at  last  like 
fairy  gold  in  the  sand  The  laughing  girls  of 
the  tribe  tried  to  rouse  him  from  indifference, 
but  could  not  stir  him  to  join  in  their  songs  and 
games.  In  the  time  of  the  corn  harvest  the 
present  of  a  blood-red  ear,  the  Indian's  rose 
d* amour,  did  not  move  him  to  any  feeling,  and 
he  turned  with  glance  averted  from  the  flying 
feet  in  the  bewitching  cachina  dance. 

" '  He  is  moonstruck/  said  the  girls ;  'give  him 
the  crooked  ear,  for  the  fool  is  fit  for  nothing 
but  to  sit  in  the  sun  with  the  very  old  men/  "  He 
heeded  neither  jest  nor  laugh,  and  determined 
to  come  back  to  the  Blue  Fountain.  When  he 
set  out  an  airy  figure  seemed  to  go  before  and 
beckon  him  on,  as  the  swan  maidens  of  the 
German  lakes  beckon  young  knights  into  their 
little  boats  drawn  by  snowy  swans  harnessed 
with  silver  chains. 

"Southward,  southward  he  strode,  following 
the  ancient  march  of  Azatlan,  and,  in  sight  of 
the  beloved  spring,  he  climbed  the  steep,  fleet 
and  untired  as  the  red  deer,  to  find  the  same 
sparkling  fountain,  and  the  shining  brook  below 
it  running  into  the  valley  as  it  will  run  on  for- 
ever. 

"Again  he  lay  down  on  the  soft,  warm  sand, 
and  once  more  the  delicate  phantom  appeared  to 
his  closed  eyes,  whispered  gently  in  his  ear,  and 
bent  above  his  head  as  i>  to  kiss  him." 

Here  the  lovers  "  changed  eyes,"  leaned  a 
trifle  closer  together,  and  I  saw  Romeo  pick  up 
a  blue  ribbon  dropped  from  Juliet's  sleeve  and 
slip  it  into  his  watch  pocket. 

"  Then  a  frantic  love  took  possession  of  the 
hunter.  Day  after  day,  night  after  night,  his 
wasting  form  was  laid  beside  the  singing  cas- 
cade ;  ever  he  sighed,  murmured,  dreamed.  The 
strength  left  his  limbs,  his  blood  beat  hotly; 


256  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

summer  waned  and  cold  winds  blew,  but  never 
cooled  the  fever  of  his  brow.  Sometimes  after  a 
day's  hunt,  returning  at  evening  he  fancied  he  saw 
a  misty  outline  against  the  dark  steep,  but  it  melted 
away  as  he  neared  it  and  instead  of  a  living  woman 
he  reached  out  to  clasp  the  empty  air.  Then  the 
warrior  began  to  understand  this  water  spirit 
was  of  the  race  of  Souls,  and  as  such  could  not 
wed  a  mortal;  to  possess  her,  therefore,  he  must 
be  like  her — must  die.  So  one  day  when  the 
world  was  all  bright  and  his  soul  all  dark,  while 
she  sung  a  song  of  wonderful  music  he  stretched 
his  arms  to  reach  the  shadowy  siren  and  plunged 
from  the  black  ledge  you  see  yonder  into  the 
unknown  depths  below." 

"  And  was  he  never  heard  of  afterward  ? " 
asked  Juliet,  while  the  roses  on  her  cheek  deep- 
ened in  betrayal  of  her  thoughts. 

"  Never,  hermosura"  said  the  Spaniard  with 
an  admiring  gesture,  "but  old  Pueblos  about 
here  say  two  shapes  rise  out  of  the  spring  where 
there  used  to  be  but  one,  float  in  the  air  and 
hover  above  it.  They  are  oftenest  seen  about 
dusk  in  the  rainy  season.  I  have  never  seen 
them  myself." 

"  I  wonder  if  they  do  show  that  way,"  said 
Rosa  with  a  puzzled  face. 

"  Quien  sabe"  said  Oreto  mysteriously,  at  the 
same  time  handing  her  the  kernel  of  a  piiion  nut 
which  he  cracked  in  his  white  front  teeth. 

And  here  let  me  record  that  the  words  "Quien 
sabe"  "  who  knows,"  are  the  end  of  controversy, 
the  finish  of  debate,  the  limit  of  human  under- 
standing, having  a  very  different  meaning  accord- 
ing to  the  persons  speaking.  With  Oreto  it  was 
as  much  as  to  say,  there  is  room  for  argument 
on  both  sides. 

All  this  time  our  stew  had  been  simmering, 
gypsy  fashion,  over  the  fire,  keeping  a  friendly 


A  Frontier  Idyl.  257 

and  impatient  knocking  at  the  pot  lid,  and  was 
now  pronounced  done.  The  stout  lady  roused 
up  from  her  nap,  set  her  bonnet  bias  across  her 
eyebrows,  said  she  was  glad  the  young  Comanche 
came  to  his  senses  at  last,  and  then  addressed 
herself  to  the  making  of  coffee. 

I  met  Oreto  frequently,  and  never  saw  him 
unbend  from  the  Hamlet  air — "  Man  delights 
not  me,  no,  nor  woman  either," — except  on  this 
one  holiday.  So  to  speak,  he  flavored  the  whole 
picnic.  He  gayly  insisted  on  seasoning  every 
dish.  "  I  will  not  ruin  the  olla  for  Americans, 
with  too  much  red  pepper,"  he  said ;  "  the 
merest  soupcon,  as  the  French  put  it."  Then  he 
contrived  a  nice,  cool-looking  salad  from  some 
crisp  leaves,  to  me  unknown,  and  served  it  with 
a  deftness  and  tact  that  would  have  graced  a 
courtier.  To  tell  the  whole  truth,  the  elegant 
Castilian  had  so  much  manner  it  was  rather 
fatiguing  to  keep  up  with  him. 

Dinner  over,  he  took  a  large  silk  handkerchief 
and  showed  how  two  prisoners  of  the  Inquisi- 
tion were  once  knotted  together  with  ropes,  and 
allowed  their  freedom  if  they  could  untie  them, 
trying  the  puzzle  on  the  lovers,  who,  of  course, 
struggled  violently  to  be  free, — I  need  hardly 
add  without  success.  Had  he  experimented  on 
some  of  the  married  couples  possibly  the  result 
might  have  been  different.  Following  this  was 
a  gay  barcarole  about  strolling  on  the  Prado, 
glancing  eyes,  winged  feet  and  envious  veils. 
"  It  should  have  castanets  in  the  chorus ;  if  Senor 
Brown  will  lend  me  his  hat  it  will  answer." 

Thus  appealed  to,  the  photographer  could  not 
choose  but  offer  his  brand  new  stovepipe  to  his 
guest,  who  thumped  it  vigorously,  greatly  to 
Senor  Brown's  annoyance,  who  stood  looking 
foolish,  bareheaded  in  the  sunshine.  And  again 
17 


258  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

I  marked  the  size  and  lustre  of  the  diamond 
ring. 

The  singer's  voice  was  a  trifle  cracked,  but 
we  were  not  fastidious,  the  ladies  hung  on  every 
word,  and  when  the  song  ended,  the  applause 
was  hearty  and  genuine.  The  blonde  artist  pro- 
duced a  flute  which  luckily  for  us  had  a  missing 
joint,  and  insinuated  he  could  be  prevailed  upon 
to  sing;  but  we  knew  "The  Raven"  would  be 
his  doleful  strain  and  upon  the  hint  no  one 
spoke. 

"  Now  a  thousand  pardons,"  said  Oreto,  "  for 
consuming  your  time  and  courtesy.  I  must 
have  a  siesta,  without  which  you  know  a 
Spaniard  is  lost  forever  and  a  day."  From  un- 
der the  seat  of  the  buckboard  he  unrolled  a 
short  cloak  and  threw  it  in  Moorish  style  across 
his  shoulders,  lifted  his  sombrero,  revealing  a 
nobly  turned  head  with  dashes  of  gray  in  the 
blue-black  hair,  and  his  face  resumed  its  expres- 
sion of  habitual  melancholy.  As  he  walked  off 
to  the  shadow  of  a  great  rock  the  alumnus  from 
Colorado  college,  who  knows  it  all,  said  in  a 
loud  whisper,  "There  goes  Don  Pomposo.  He 
feels  like  the  Corliss  engine  at  the  Centennial." 

The  old  bachelor  shot  the  fledgling  a  glance 
that  should  have  killed  him,  but  the  youth, 
though  poor  by  nature  and  exhausted  by  culti- 
vation, was  wiry  and  did  not  fall  asunder.  In 
fact  he  never  flinched.  My  thoughts  wandered 
from  the  gay  company  and  the  man  who  had  no 
respect  for  "  the  stranger  within  the  gates,"  to 
the  lone  exile  and  the  varied  fortunes  at  which 
he  had  hinted,  and  I  said  aloud,  "The  Senor 
Oreto  looks  like  a  man  who  has  a  history." 

And  he  has. 

I  dismiss  the  picnic  in  the  brilliant  periods  of 
the  Pharos  of  the  Occident.  The  editor-in- 
chief,  being  also  an  insurance  agent,  naturally 


A  Frontier  Idyl.  259 

dealt  in  large  figures,  and  gave  free  rein  to  nis 
warm,  not  to  say  fiery  imagination  :  "  The  picnic 
of  last  week  was  an  event  long  to  be  remem- 
bered. The  day  was  beautiful,  nature  enchant- 
ing, woman  divine.  Old  Baldy  lifted  his  rugged 
front  and  snowy  crown  before  us,  and  the  river 
sung  its  sweetest  cadence.  Among  distinguished 
guests  present  we  name  the  fascinating  Gonzalez 
Felipe  Oreto,  a  cosmopolitan  born  in  old  Castile, 
the  friend  of  our  artist,  James  Brown.  For 
aesthetic  culture,  refinement  of  manner  and  gen- 
eral elegance  the  versatile  Castilian  has  few 
equals  and  no  superiors.  Rumor  has  it  he  will 
soon  lead  to  the  altar  a  fair  widow  well  known 
to  our  city,  and  we  learn  with  extreme  pleasure 
that  he  has  been  prevailed  on  to  cast  in  his  lot 
with  us  and  become  a  citizen  of  the  most  desira- 
ble of  all  the  territories." 

From  this  time  the  popularity  of  the  delight- 
ful Gonzalez  Felipe  Oreto  steadly  increased. 
The  young  ladies  gazed  at  him  with  undisguised 
admiration,  the  mothers  smiled  on  him,  but  his 
attentions  were  too  evenly  distributed  to  indicate 
the  least  preference.  One  day  he  dashed  all 
hopes  by  publishing  in  the  Pharos  of  the  Occident 
the  poem  given  below.  He  told  his  landlady,  in 
the  deepest  confidence,  it  was  addressed  to  a 
noble  lady  of  Valencia,  who  had  deigned  to 
give  him  a  sweet  souvenir  in  return  for  his  verses 
and  present. 

My  reader  need  hardly  be  told  it  was  all  over 
town  before  night — that  pretty  secret  of  Oreto's. 

TO  ISABELLA  RASCON— WITH  A  SHELL. 

The  years  have  brought  you  many  gifts 

Since  first  you  heard  them  tell 
How  the  voice  of  the  sea  is  hid 

In  the  windings  of  a  shell. 
And  where'er  it  may  be  exiled, 

From  its  own  warm  Eastern  main, 
Bend  your  ear  to  the  crystal  cell, 

And  you  hear  the  sea  again. 


260  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

J  list  to  the  murmurous  sound 

But  it  never  shapes  one  word. 
I  cannot  guess  what  it  would  tell, 

That  echo  always  heard. 
Does  it  speak  of  the  strange,  rich  life 

Far  down  in  the  surging  waves, 
Where  purple  mullet  and  gold  ttsh  rove 

The  depths  of  coral  caves  ? 

Where  Ocean's  throbbing  heart  is  stilled, 

And  wandering  Peri's  rest, 
'Mid  the  pearl  and  amber  jewels 

He  loves  to  wear  in  his  breast  ? 
Perchance  the  mellow  strain  was  caught 

From  the  song  of  mermaid  fair, 
Dreamily  chanting,  as  she  smoothed 

The  rings  of  her  long,  wet  hair. 

Or,  lingering  yet,  the  echo  faint 

Of  a  life  once  held  within. 
Some  hidden  shape  that  breathed  and  died 

Afar  from  the  breakers  din. 
Never  had  Sultan  roof  like  this, 

Never  king  such  castlo  wall, 
What  was  it  wrought  this  wondrous  dome 

And  tilled  this  crystal  hall  ? 

Deserted  now,  but  whispering  low 

The  secret  hid  in  the  sea. 
Ask  what  the  mystic  music  means, 

And  it  answers,  ceaselessly, 
With  that  weird  song,— tender  and  low 

As  the  voice  of  brooding  dove 
Who  murmurs  but  a  single  note, 

Keynote  of  life— it  is  Love. 

Ah,  when  you  hear  that  pleading  sound, 

Dream  not  of  siren  or  sea. 
Believe  it  the  spirit  of  Love, 

Forever  singing— of  me. 

Some  weeks  after  the  picnic  I  sat  working  a 
highly  useless  lamp  mat  in  my  parlor,  which  in 
pleasant  Mexican  fashion  is  divided  from  the 
office  by  a  curtained  doorway.  There  passed 
the  barred  window  a  dapper  little  man,  whipping 
his  boot  with  a  short  riding  whip  as  he  went 
along,  whom  I  recognized  as  a  government  agent 
from  Los  Indios.  I  heeded  not  the  conversa- 
tion, easily  overheard,  or  rather  the  monologue 
which  languished,  till  a  sudden  animation  of 
voice  betrayed  the  true  purpose  of  the  visitor  as 
he  asked,  "  Was  there  a  fellow  hangin'  'round 
here  not  long  ago,  calling  himself  Oreto;  a  sort 
of  literary  and  sentimental  adventurer,  pretending 
to  be  in  heavy  mourning  ?  " 


The  Pimos.  261 

"  Yes,  he  had  quite  a  turn  for  story  telling  and 
amusing  children.  The  caballero  appears  to 
have  fallen  on  evil  times — a  sad  face,  wouldn't  be 
a  bad  model  for  the  Master  of  Ravenswood." 

"  Exactly ;  his  face  is  mighty  sad  about  this 
time.  Interested  friends  have  taken  secure 
boarding  for  him  and  relieved  him  of  his  wig  and 
big  diamond  ring — the  property  of  a  lady  in 
Zuloago.  His  real  name  is  Gomez,  a  gambler 
and  murderer  from  the  city  of  Mexico.  He  ran 
off  to  Chihuahua,  which  soon  got  too  hot  to  hold 
him  and  his  little  games,  moved  on  to  Los  Indios, 
where  he  played  three  card  monte  once  too 
often  for  even  territorial  morality,  and  the  noble 
hidalgo  is  now  smiling  his  melancholy  smile 
behind  the  grated  windows  of  the  county  jail." 

"  He  had  rather  an  agreeable  manner,"  said 
the  listener  with  a  long  yawn,  "  but  I  never  took 
much  stock  in  the  man." 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

THE   PIMOS. 

THE  minds  of  men  untrained  are  strangely 
alike.  There  is  such  sameness  of  arts,  customs, 
inventions,  such  likeness  in  their  religious  beliefs 
under  like  stages  of  development,  we  must  reach 
the  conclusions  that  on  subjects  of  deep  human 
interest  certain  ideas  are  inherent  in  human 
hearts,  despite  alien  blood  and  long  epochs  of 
separation.  All  barbarians  have  their  priests  or 
medicine  men  and  prophets,  are  firm  believers  in 
necromancy,  incantations,  the  power  of  witch- 
craft, and  have  deep  faith  in  the  great  Spirit  as 
the  peculiar  guardian  of  their  race.  Some  tribes 
have  a  fear  of  the  devil  who  must  be  worshipped 


262  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

in  order  to  be  propitiated.  With  them  old  times 
are  best,  and  all  traditions  run  back  to  a  golden 
age  of  innocency  in  a  Region  of  Delight  where 
the  rivers  sparkled  with  sweet  water,  the  maize 
was  always  ripe,  and  high  born  warriors  revelled 
and  feasted  on  the  game  ever  in  sight.  There 
was  no  work,  no  disease,  no  old  age.  This 
Elysium  was  lost  by  crime,  and  the  Arcadian 
days  ended  forever.  The  sinful  world  was  de- 
stroyed by  a  Flood  from  which  only  one  prophet 
and  his  family  escaped.  Every  Rocky  Mountain 
tribe  has  its  legend  of  the  deluge  and  belief  in 
the  second  coming  of  the  Divine  Man  who  is  to 
right  all  wrongs,  correct  all  miseries  and  mis- 
takes; returning  some  bright  morning  to  renew 
the  dull  world  to  youth,  and  then  Paradise  will 
be  regained.  For  this  revelation  they  wait,  as 
the  prophetic  souls  were  found  waiting  to  be 
guided  by  the  star  which  led  to  the  divine  child 
of  Mary. 

The  Pueblos  jealously  guard  their  wretched 
little  chapels  (estufas)  from  the  prying  eyes  of 
strangers,  and  the  gentlest  of  visitors  is  rebuffed 
by  their  dumb  secrecy.  In  different  ways  I  have 
gathered  many  traditions.  Some  are  childish 
and  witless  to  my  understanding;  others  wear- 
ing symbolic  veils  are  graceful  as  the  Greek 
myths,  and  hold  a  significance  as  rich.  Fables 
of  the  nomads  will  do  for  another  day.  The 
Pueblos  take  our  attention  first.  The  great  var- 
iety of  climate  in  North  America  produces 
various  habits  of  life  which  temper  and  color  the 
fables ;  and  I  believe  there  is  no  myth  without 
some  meaning.  The  vapory  conceits  we  treat  so 
lightly  were  not  empty  phantasms  to  the  brain 
that  shaped  them  in  the  beginning,  and  some 
heart  has  thrilled  to  each  airy,  insubstantial 
legend. 

Certain  old  instincts  run  in  all  bloods.     The 


The  Pimos.  26^ 

inborn  desire  of  the  soul  to  account  for  its  origin, 
to  ask  whence  come  I,  what  am  I,  perplexes  the 
bewildered  savage  burrowing  in  his  cave  as  it 
did  the  learned  questioners,  a  mixed  multitude 
crowding  the  Academy,  reverently  listening  to 
the  wondrous  maid  of  Alexandria — Hypatia  the 
Beautiful. 

What  is  truth  ?  asked  the  Governor  of  Judea 
as  truth  Incarnate  stood  before  him  in  the  Judg- 
ment Hall;  and  men  are  yet  demanding  of 
science,  nature,  philosophy,  the  origin  of  being, 
the  destinies,  the  soul  and  its  limitations.  Turn- 
ing from  the  seen  to  the  unseen,  from  the  outer 
to  the  inner  life,  from  the  tangible  to  the  unreal, 
longing  to  know  the  beginning  and  the  end  of 
all.  It  is  the  old  yearning  to  be  as  God  ;  old  as 
the  first  man.  To  comprehend  the  stirring  of 
the  divinity  within,  which  neither  feeds  nor 
sleeps  but  lives  on  separate  from  the  body,  opens 
endless  questioning.  This  is  the  study  of  sages ; 
about  it  the  wisest  debate  and  ponder,  and  of  it 
the  savage,  blanketless  and  naked,  where  the  soft 
seasons  allow  him  to  roam,  asks  with  a  blind 
ignorance  infinitely  pathetic. 

To  him  the  hidden  forces  which  rule  the  uni  • 
verse  are  divinities  to  be  entreated  by  prayer, 
propitiated  by  sacrifice  and  offerings.  The  sav- 
age's whole  life  is  penetrated  by  religion,  from 
the  hard  little  cradle  to  which  he  is  swathed,  to 
the  shallow  pit  where  he  lies  uncorfined  when 
life's  struggle  is  over. 

The  tribes  near  Santa  Feand  the  larger  Amer- 
ican towns  of  New  Mexico  have  mixed  the  relig- 
ion of  Christ  with  the  old  superstitions  in  a 
curious,  almost  painful  manner.  I  once  visited 
Tesuque  with  a  view  to  gaining  some  knowledge 
of  their  primitive  ceremonials.  The  usual  pro- 
tracted smoking  was  indulged  in ;  there  followed 
a  stupid  meaningless  silence,  considered  the 


264  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

heignt  of  politeness ;  then  we  partook  of  cold 
refreshments  consisting  of  little  apples  carefully 
wiped  on  the  sheepskin  which  covered  baby's 
cradle  as  a  blanket.  We  climbed  the  rickety 
ladders,  admired  the  excellence  of  the  bearskins, 
counted  the  bags  of  shelled  corn  and  rough  pot- 
teries baked  in  their  mud  furnaces,  surveyed  a 
chromo  in  feverish  colors  named  the  Queen  of 
Heaven,  and  when  the  time  was  ripe  I  modestly 
inquired  if  we  might  be  permitted  to  visit  the 
estufa.  The  head  man  of  the  tribe  (cacique) 
whom  we  named  Hiawatha,  smiled  blandly, 
showing  ivory  white  teeth  without  a  flaw,  and 
said  "Si,  Signora,"  with  a  cheerful  alacrity  quite 
foreign  to  the  usual  aboriginal  stoicism.  We  fol- 
lowed him  into  the  courtyard  and  Minnehaha 
followed  us  and  stonily  stared.  The  dusky 
maiden  in  the  march  of  progress  is  escaping 
from  buckskin  draperies.  She  wears  the  gar- 
ment called  by  the  French  intimate,  skirt  of 
Navajo  blanket,  black  ground  with  tracings  of 
red  embroidery,  not  unlike  the  familiar  Greek 
pattern,  calico  shawl  gay  as  the  scarf  of  Iris. 
She  is  without  beauty  of  any  sort ;  is  raw  boned 
and  high  shouldered,  inclining  to  fat ;  of  an 
ashy  sunburnt  skin,  flat  face,  high  cheek  bones, 
thick  lips,  mannish  gait,  harsh  voice.  She  is 
nearly  akin  (if  there's  anything  in  likeness)  to 
the  Mongolian  Ah  Sin,  and  to  ward  off  the  sun 
that  day  carried  a  yellow  parasol  over  her  heavy 
head.  They  all  stared  unmoved  as  we  climbed  a 
ladder  leaning  against  the  side  of  a  high  pen 
made  of  pine  logs  and  mud  plaster, — a  roofless 
enclosure  perhaps  eighteen  feet  square.  As  we 
looked  down,  a  number  of  birds  like  swallows 
flew  out,  and  save  their  mud-built  nests  against 
the  logs  the  ancient  estufa  was  empty.  The  old 
arrow-maker  was  joking  when  he  conducted  us 
to  the  altar  place ;  the  shrine  was  abandoned,  the 


The  Pimos.  265 

sacred  fire  was  dead,  the  secret  temple  with  all 
its  holy  and  guarded  mysteries  was  laid  open  to 
women  even !  It  was  plain  the  Queen  of 
Heaven  had  usurped  the  place  of  the  lord  of  life 
and  light.  The  chief  smiled  broadly  and  Minne- 
haha  wrapped  the  pink  calico  rebosa  round  her 
head  and  laughed  as  if  she  would  die.  I  hate  to 
be  beaten  in  this  way,  and  while  the  gentlemen 
went  off  to  look  at  a  bear  skin,  I  approached 
the  youthful  princess  in  the  attitude  of  inter- 
viewer. "  Gentle  maiden,"  I  said,  mustering  my 
small  stock  of  Spanish,  "  do  you  remember  when 
the  Montezuma  fire  burned  in  this  deserted 
estufa  ?" 

"  Si,  Signora." 

"  Was  it  many  years  ago  ?  " 

"  Si,  signora." 

"  Perhaps  fifteen  years  ?  "  (insinuatingly). 

"Si,  signora." 

"  Ah,  can  you  remember  so  long  ?  What  sort 
of  wood  was  consecrated  to  the  shrine  ?  " 

"  Si,  signora. " 

"  Did  it  flame  up  to  the  roof,  or  was  it  merely 
a  bank  of  coals;  your  mother"  (tenderly)  "has 
told  you  of  it  I  know." 

"  Si,  signora." 

"Then  tell  me  all  you  know,  if  it  will  not 
trouble  you  too  much,  and  I  promise  you  a  beau- 
tiful string  of  blue  beads." 

"Si,  signora." 

This  intellectual  feast  was  broken  up  by  an 
untimely  giggle  from  a  gentle  maiden  not  of 
aboriginal  blood,  and  we  made  our  adieux.  I 
afterward  learned  the  sweet  girl  was  only  sham- 
ming ;  she  understood  Spanish  well  enough,  but 
chose  this  pretense  to  outwit  strangers.  A  dis- 
tinguished success. 

We  were  completely  floored  and  made  haste 
to  cover  our  retreat  by  leaving  the  mud-walled 


266  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

village  for  a  nooning  and  lunch  under  a  clump 
of  gnarled  cedars  hard  by.  The  Indian  is  not 
disappearing  at  a  satisfactory  rate  before  the 
march  of  civilization.  A  swarm  of  children,  the 
dirtiest  and  raggedest  imaginable,  followed  us 
and  held  out  their  hands  for  the  remains  of  our 
lunch.  The  biscuits  were  snatched  by  a  youth- 
ful Indigene  like  the  greedy  boy  of  the  First 
Reader  who  refused  to  give  his  dear  playmates  a 
crumb  of  his  cake,  and  I  had  to  fairly  slap  his 
hands  to  make  him  divide.  He  then  swallowed 
the  lemon  rinds  and  would  have  devoured  the 
sardine  boxes  if  he  could.  So  much  alike  are 
the  sons  of  men  ! 

To  reach  the  old  superstitions  in  their  purity 
we  must  push  away  from  the  track  of  the  loco- 
motive ;  far  as  possible  from  censer  and  cross, 
parish  priest  and  Protestant  missionary.  So  we 
set  out  with  the  determination  of  the  mythic 
Roton,  who  resolved  to  go  till  he  arrived 
at  the  roof  of  heaven ;  away  to  the  Moquis 
of  the  North  and  the  Papagos  of  the  South. 
Below  the  Gila  dwell  in  close  neighborhood 
the  Maricopas  and  the  Pimos,  or  as  the  old 
Spaniards  wrote  it  Pimas,  whom  they  found  three 
hundred  years  ago  irrigating  the  lands  and  rais- 
ing two  crops  of  corn  a  year,  just  as  they  do 
now.  The  Coco-Maricopas  are  a  branch  of  the 
Pueblos,  and  these  tribes  inhabit  a  large  region, 
mostly  perfect  desert,  between  the  head  of  the 
Gulf  of  California  and  that  extensive  cordiliera 
of  which  the  Sierra  Catalina  forms  the  most 
westerly  range.  A  volcanic  country  in  which 
since  the  introduction  of  man,  the  surface  of  the 
the  earth  as  well  as  the  climate  has  undergone 
gieat  changes. 

After  straining  over  scorching  deserts,  alia!! 
p'nins,  sage  bush  and  greasewood  wastes,  it  was 
a  deep  pleasure  to  rest  our  tired  eyes  on  the 


The  Ptrnos.  267 

bright  corn  lands  on  both  sides  of  the  river  Gila, 
which  runs  through  the  Pimo  reservation  about 
twenty-five  miles.  The  three  great  acequias 
with  their  various  branches  comprise  nearly  five 
hundred  miles,  and  extend  over  a  tract  of  land 
eighteen  miles  in  length.  The  fields  are  fenced 
with  crooked  sticks,  wattled  with  brush,  mainly 
of  the  thorny  cactus  and  mezquit.  The  Salic  or 
rather  Slavic  law  prevails  among  the  aborigines. 
Instead  of  studying  graceful  culture  and  decora- 
tive art,  the  farming  is  done  by  the  women. 
When  harvest  time  comes,  the  men  turn  into  the 
fields  and  help,  besides  lightening  the  labor  by 
standing  around  in  the  shade  and  looking  on,  or 
sprawling  on  the  floor  swinging  the  baby  as  it 
hangs  suspended  in  a  box,  hanging  by  a  cord 
from  the  ceiling.  Sometimes  the  mother  carries 
a  large  basket  on  her  head  and  the  papoose  sit- 
ting on  a  sort  of  side-bustle  astride  her  hip.  A 
civilized  baby  would  tumble  off  instantly,  but  the 
native  infant  holds  on  to  her  smooth,  shining  sides 
in  an  attitude  wonderfully  like  the  missing  link, 
our  Simian  ancestor,  riding  the  calico  pony  in 
gay  circus  ring.  This  baby  does  not  cut  mon- 
key-shines, but  stares  at  the  stranger  as  stolidly 
as  his  father  and  mother.  The  Pimo  customs 
are  like  the  Coco-Maricopas  in  everything  but 
burial  rites.  They  bury  their  dead  but  their 
neighbors  burn  them.  The  Maricopa  bodies  are 
placed  on  a  funeral  pyre  of  resinous  wood  and 
utterly  consumed,  in  classic  fashion. 

Reporters  say  the  mourners  go  into  a  profound 
mourning  of  tar.  On  inquiry  I  learned  the 
"  tar  is  a  portion  of  the  ashes  of  the  dear 
deceased  mixed  with  the  dissolved  gum  of  the 
mezquit,  (a  species  of  acacia  which  yields  a 
concrete  juice  like  gum  arabic).  They  smear 
their  faces  with  the  hideous  plaster,  and  let  it 
remain  as  a  mark  of  deep  grief  till  it  wears  away. 


268  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

A  widow,  the  next  day  after  her  bereavement,  is 
offered  in  market  by  the  town  crier  to  any  one 
who  wants  a  wife.  If  an  able-bodied  squaw, 
good  at  hoeing,  and  stout  enough  to  balance  the 
baby  on  top  of  the  basket  of  corn  overhead,  she 
is  usually  courted,  "  wooed,  won,  married  and 
all "  within  a  few  days,  though  custom  allows 
her  to  continue  the  periodic  howling  and  tar 
deep-mourning  several  days  after  the  new  honey- 
moon begins  to  shine. 

I  was  charmed  at  thought  of  being  among 
Pagans  assisting  at  such  heathen  obsequies,  and 
felt  it  the  spot  to  find  the  ancient  lore  1  sought, 
through  many  a  weary  mile  of  lava  bed  and 
tropic  scorch.  I  was  among  the  changeless, 
unimpressible  American  Indians,  living  among 
demons  and  goblins,  spirits  of  earth,  air,  fire, 
water,  whose  beliefs  are  untainted  by  mixture  of 
Christian  ideas.  Here  I  discovered  the  flickering, 
mythic  lights  which  produce  such  lovely  effects, 
changing  gods  to  men,  and  making  demigods  of 
heroes.  Among  these  untutored  children  of 
nature,  every  misty  outline  and  vapory  mountain 
haze  might  be  an  aboriginal  soul  floated  out  into 
the  unknown  dark  on  its  wanderings  toward  the 
bright  sun  house.  In  the  shadows  of  vast  canons 
the  block  elves  have  their  haunts,  and  lie  in  wait 
for  bewildered  spirits,  and  hurl  spectral  missiles 
along  the  pathless  space  surrounding  "  the  dance 
house  of  the  ghosts."  The  Pueblos  are  ail  sun 
worshippers,  and  the  Pimos  tell  us  the  road  to 
the  sun  house  is  beset  with  perils.  In  the  dark- 
ness of  the  dread  mystery  of  death,  deep  waters 
are  to  be  crossed,  many-headed  monsters  bellow 
and  roar,  fire  flames  before  the  eyes,  and  whirl- 
winds lift  the  affrighted  spirit  from  his  feet  and 
toss  him  in  mid  air.  Four  is  a  sacred  number 
with  them,  derived  from  adoration  of  the  four 
cardinal  points;  the  soul  flutters  about  the  body 


The  Pimos.  269 

four  days,  and  sometimes  stones  are  thrown  across 
the  warrior's  grave  to  scare  away  the  evil  spirits. 
In  the  unlighted  valley  the  brave  must  be  pro- 
vided with  a  pipe  for  his  solace,  with  weapons 
suited  to  his  rank,  choice  armor  approved  to  fit 
him  as  he  enters  the  kingdom  of  souls.  Lifeless, 
he  may  yet  grope  through  the  cold  clay,  and 
touching  with  icy  fingers  the  trusted  arms,  will 
not  tremble  in  defenceless  march  through  the 
horror  of  the  awful  shades. 

Is  this  not  the  instinct  of  the  antique  Scythian 
buried  on  the  field  with  the  blade  in  which  vic- 
tory still  lingers  ?  The  pathos  of  the  singer 
breaking  his  heart  and  harp  together. 

"  Lay  his  sword  by  his  side,  it  hath  served  him  too  well 

Not  to  rest  near  his  pillow  below ; 
To  the  last  moment  true,  from  his  hand  ere  it  fell 

Its  point  was  still  turned  to  a  flying  foe. 
Fellow-lab'rers  in  life,  let  them  slumber  in  death, 

Side  by  side,  as  becomes  the  reposing  brave,— 
That  sword  which  he  loved  still  unbroke  in  its  sheath, 

And  himself  unsubdued  in  his  grave." 

Four  days  the  howlers  howl,  and  further  to 
cheer  the  dread  passage  four  nights  a  fire  is  kin- 
dled on  the  warrior's  grave  to  open  a  path  for 
the  blinded  footsteps  in  the  fearful  "  dead  man's 
journey,"  and  lead  them  to  the  sun,  the  safe, 
final  resting  place.  There  the  chief  will  take  up 
his  weapons  again  and  spend  a  blissful  eternity 
fighting  his  old  enemies,  the  Yumas,  and  we  may 
be  sure  slaying  his  thousands  and  revelling  in 
blood,  like  the  Viking  in  the  halls  of  the  Val- 
halla, with  his  comrades  hacked  to  pieces  in 
many  a  morning  fight,  but  always  ready  with 
whole  limbs  and  flashing,  undinted  armor,  to 
appear  at  dinner.  Food  is  placed  on  the  fresh 
earth,  the  best  corn  bread,  flesh  of  antelope  and 
jars  of  water,  that  the  lone  one  may  be  com- 
forted by  gifts  from  the  world  he  has  left.  These 
tender  offerings  bestowed,  the  property  of  the 
hero  is  portioned  out  to  the  tribe,  fields  divided 


270  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

among  those  who  need  land,  his  grain,  chickens, 
dogs,  bows,  etc.,  fairly  distributed.  No  wrang- 
ling among  heirs,  no  lawyers  to  absorb  estates, 
all  is  done  fairly  and  equitably,  in  a  submission 
to  precedent  worthy  our  imitation. 

Nor  do  the  Pimos  refuse  to  be  comforted. 
Cattle  are  driven  up  and  slaughtered,  and  deeply 
burdened  with  sorrow,  every  man  loads  down  his 
squaw  with  beef,  and  feasts  whole  days  on  funeral 
baked  meats.  Dare  I  disgust  my  dear  friend, 
the  classic  reader,  by  saying  these  barbarian  feasts 
are  reminders  of  the  tremendous  banquet  in  the 
pavilion  of  Agamennon,  where  the  "  steer  of 
full  five  years  "  was  killed,  skinned,  and  cooked 
before  the  eyes  of  the  Grecians. 

Homeric  champions — Trojan  peers  and  scep- 
tered  kings  of  Greece — were  not  made  wretched 
by  indigestion,  and  I  suspect  (low  be  it  spoken !) 
they  took  pepsin  in  the  natural  state.  With  their 
enviable  appetites  they  were  ready  to  eat  off- 
hand; the  squarest  of  meals  never  came  amiss, 
and  their  capacity  for  tough  beef,  rare  done,  was 
prodigious  and  unfailing.  So  far  very  like  our 
Rocky  mountaineers,  but  unhappily  the  red  war- 
riors are  not  embalmed  in  verse  by  the  imperish- 
able poets. 

When  the  Indian  woman  dies  no  high  sepul- 
chral feasts,  no  games  and  honors,  such  as  Ilion 
to  her  hero  paid.  With  scant  ceremony  she  is 
wrapped  in  her  poor  shroud,  the  moccasins  of 
her  own  make  fastened  to  her  shapely  feet ;  the 
carry  ing- strap  worn  across  the  forehead,  and  the 
paddle  go  with  the  cold  hands.  Sad  emblem  of 
woman's  destiny  in  the  wilderness;  pathetic 
tokens  that  even  in  the  mystic  land  of  shades  she 
must  be  the  silent,  uncomplaining  slave  of  her 
brutish,  savage  lord. 

This  is  the  Pimo  legend  of  the  Creation  :  The 
world  was  made  by  an  earth  prophet.  In  the  begin- 


The  Pimos.  271 

ning  it  stretched  fair  and  frail  as  a  line  of  light 
across  the  darkness  of  empty  space.  A  wise 
Sagamore  lived  in  the  Gila  valley,  and  one  night 
a  royal  eagle  came  to  the  door  and  warned  him 
of  a  deluge  close  at  hand.  The  prophet  wrapped 
his  mantle  of  fur  around  him,  for  it  was  winter, 
and  laughed  the  gray  messenger  to  scorn.  The 
kingly  bird  shook  his  white  head,  spread  wide  his 
wings  and  soared  away  to  heaven.  Again  the 
eagle  came  with  his  warning  cry,  the  waters  were 
near  and  would  soon  burst  overhead;  but  the 
sachem  drowsily  groaned  at  the  wakening  voice 
and  turned  on  his  bed  of  buffalo  skins  and  slept. 
Three  times  the  broad  wings  shadowed  the 
sleeper,  and  the  friendly  voice  entreated  him  to 
flee  the  wrath  of  the  gods,  but  the  prophet  gave 
no  heed.  Then  quick  as  the  eagle  disappeared 
in  the  blue  and  starry  silence,  there  came  thun- 
der, lightning,  and  a  mountain  of  water  like  an 
earthquake  overspread  the  valley  of  Gila,  and  the 
morning  sun  shone  on  only  one  man  saved  from 
destruction  by  floating  on  a  ball  of  resin — Szeukha, 
the  son  of  the  Creator.  He  was  enraged  at  the 
royal  bird,  thinking  him  the  mover  of  the  flood, 
and  made  a  rope  ladder  of  tough  bark  like  the 
woodbine,  climbed  the  naked,  riven  cliff  where 
the  eagle  lived,  and  slew  him.  He  then  raised 
to  life  the  mangled  bodies  of  the  slain  on  which 
the  eagle  had  preyed,  and  sent  them  out  to 
re-people  the  world.  In  the  centre  of  the  vast 
eyrie  he  found  a  woman,  the  eagle's  wife,  and 
their  child.  These  he  helped  down  the  rope  lad- 
der and  sent  on  their  way,  and  from  them  are 
descended  that  race  of  wise  men  called  Hoho- 
cam,  ancients  or  grandfathers,  who  were  guided 
in  all  their  wanderings  by  an  eagle.  Southward 
they  marched  past  forests  of  oak,  sycamore, 
cedar  and  flowering  trees,  past  mountains  of 
crystal  and  gold,  and  rivers  murmurous  with  song 


272  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

flowing  over  beds  of  stars,  till  they  reached  a 
deep  blue  lake  kissed  by  soft  winds,  sparkling  in 
the  sunlight.  On  its  borders  they  planted  a  city 
with  streets  of  water — old  Tenochtitlan,  which 
white  men  call  Mexico.  Through  the  uncounted 
centuries  since  the  deluge,  Szeukha  has  not 
dropped  out  of  Indian  memory. 

Because  he  killed  the  bird  of  prophecy  he  had 
to  do  a  sort  of  penance,  which  was  never  to 
scratch  himself  with  his  nails  but  always  with  a 
little  stick.  The  custom  is  still  adhered  to  by 
the  unchanging  Pimos,  and  a  splinter  of  wood, 
renewed  every  fourth  day,  is  carried  for  this  pur- 
pose, stuck  in  their  long  coarse  hair  and  plied 
with  extreme  energy  and  enjoyment.  Stern  are 
the  duties  of  the  historian,  and  truth  obliges  me 
to  record  the  Pimos  do  not  scratch  their  heads 
for  nothing. 

They  are  good  fighters,  and  hare  been  a  wall 
of  defence  against  the  incursions  of  Apaches,  at 
one  time  the  only  protection  for  travellers 
between  Fort  Yuma  and  Tucson.  They  appear 
comfortable  in  their  huts, — which  are  snug  dens 
of  oval  shape  made  of  mud  and  reeds  thatched 
with  tule  or  wheat  straw, — quietly  contented  with 
their  industrious  wives  and  their  own  lazy  selves. 
They  make  a  kind  of  wine  like  sour  cider,  not 
nearly  so  good  though,  and  quaff  the  vinegar 
bowl  with  sombre  hilarity  after  the  corn  bread 
and  mutton  are  disposed  at  dinner. 

The  tributaries  of  the  Gila  bear  sweet,  soft, 
meandering  Spanish  names  which  I  forget.  They 
are  rivers  of  the  leaky  sort,  disappearing  by 
fitful  turns  and  capriciously  starting  up 
again  in  the  deeply  worn  channels.  Even  in  its 
best  strength  the  Gila  (river  of  swift  water)  is  not 
so  large  as  an  Indiana  creek  which  we  would 
blush  to  call  river.  It  contains  three  kinds  of 
fish  ;  trout,  buffalo,  and  humpback,  all  equally 


The  Pimos.  273 

mean,  of  slippery,  muddy,  flavor  and  most  inferior 
quality. 

Not  far  from  the  Pimo  villages,  eleven  in  num- 
ber, are  the  written  rocks,  mentioned  in  the 
oldest  histories  and  described  at  length  by  the 
early  explorers  and  the  modern  traveller.  At 
the  base  of  an  immense  blufif  are  heaps  of 
boulders  covered  with  figures  of  men  and  animals, 
rudely  carved  with  some  coarse  instruments. 
Uncouth  shapes  of  birds,  footprints,  snakes,  and 
the  ever  recurring  print  of  a  moccasin,  indicative 
of  marching.  Many  writers  attach  a  value  to 
these  ancient  inscriptions ;  one  old  Spanish  ad- 
venturer discerned  in  them  letters  like  the  Gothic, 
Hebrew  and  Chaldean  characters.  They  are  not 
there  to-day ;  among  hundreds  of  piled-up 
boulders  and  detached  stones  there  is  no  tracery 
like  the  letters  of  any  known  language.  Some 
of  the  markings  are  centuries  old  and  partly 
effaced,  others  written  over  and  over  again.  The 
under  sides  of  the  rocks,  also,  are  sculptured 
where  it  would  be  impossible  to  cut  them  as  they 
lie,  and  some  weigh  many  tons.  These  last 
must  have  fallen  from  the  mountain  after  the 
hieroglyphs  were  made.  There  can  be  no  doubt 
of  their  great  antiquity  and  the  large  numbers  of 
carved  stones  prove  it  to  have  been  a  resort  ages 
on  ages  ago,  but  I  doubt  the  importance  of  the 
lines,  to  me  meaningless  zigzags.  Indians  are  the 
laziest  of  mortals,  and  in  their  childish  way  love 
to  scribble  worthless  signs,  rude  pictography  on 
their  skins  and  the  hides  of  animals,  their  walls 
and  potteries.  The  "  Pedros  Pintados"  which 
took  such  hold  on  Spanish  imagination  were 
probably  boundery  lines  between  tribes,  and  the 
tortoise,  snake  and  so  on  are  the  ancient  tribal 
symbols,  treaties  possibly.  If  they  had  the  deep 
significance  claimed  by  easily  excited  chroniclers 
the  story  would  run  like  this :  The  sons  of  the 
18 


274  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

North  have  waded  a  lake  of  blood,  have  swept 
like  the  whirlwind  across  the  Sierras;  the  bow 
has  rattled,  the  arrow  flew.  We  have  broken 
the  bones  of  the  Apaches,  scooped  out  their  eyes 
and  warmed  our  hands  in  their  smoking  blood. 
We  have  scalped  the  proud  warriors  and  beaten 
out  the  brains  of  their  children.  Whoop  la ! 
Now  let  the  earth  tremble,  for  the  wolves  are  let 
loose  on  the  slain  ! 

There  are  widely  scattered  ruins  in  the  Gila 
valleys  showing  it  was  once  densely  populated, 
but  the  remains  are  so  monotonous  they  com- 
mand little  interest.  The  visitor  who  has  seen 
one  has  the  type  of  all.  A  certain  melancholy 
pathos  invests  every  ruin;  houses  where  men 
have  lived  and  died  are  more  or  less  haunted,  but 
the  relics  of  New  Mexico  and  Arizona  are  desti- 
tute of  anything  like  grace  or  comeliness.  The 
makers  and  builders  never  got  beyond  the  rough 
adobe,  the  stone  hatchet  and  flint  arrow-head, 
and  nothing  is  proved  by  them  except  that  this 
country  has  been  inhabited  from  a  remote  period 
by  a  people  not  differing  greatly  from  the 
Pueblos  of  to-day. 

As  we  journeyed  up  the  valley  we  saw  herds 
of  antelopes,  always  too  distant  for  a  shot.  The 
Rocky  mountain  antelope  is  a  most  beautiful  and 
graceful  animal,  of  compact  form  and  exceeding 
strength.  The  lithe  limbs  are  delicate  and  fleet, 
feet  small  and  elegant,  tail  short  and  tufted.  It 
is  light  fawn  color,  under  parts  white ;  its 
luminous  dark  eyes  are  like  those  of  the  gazelle 
of  the  Orient.  Shy  and  not  easily  approached 
the  Indians  domesticate  them  by  trapping  when 
very  young.  They  have  the  gentlest,  most 
confiding  way  of  laying  their  heads  in  your  lap, 
and  looking  up  with  the  lustrous  eyes  which  have 
furnished  poets  with  lovely  imagery  from  the 
clays  of  Solomon  to  the  nights  of  Byron.  I 


Th*  Pimos.  ,275 

know  no  creature  with  such  an  appealing  manner 
and  such  swift  grace  of  movement ;  they  speed 
across  the  still,  wide  plain,  in  the  farness  of  the 
distance  appearing  like  low  flying  birds. 

Though  we  are  not  in  the  Navajo  country  we 
see  now  and  then  their  famous  blanket,  striped  in 
gayest  blue,  yellow  and  red,  this  last  color  so 
dear  to  the  Indian  eye,  made  from  ravelling  out 
flannel  which  they  buy  of  the  white  traders. 
The  dyes  are  vegetable  and  absolutely  fadeless. 
The  blanket  is  coarse,  hard  and  heavy  ;  a  good 
one  will  shed  water  like  rubber,  and  wear  a  great 
while  as  a  horse  or  saddle  blanket.  The  Indian 
women  spin  wool  in  a  slow,  simple  way  by  rolling 
in  their  hands,  and  they  spend  all  their  spare 
time  for  months  in  making  one  blanket  which 
may  sell  for  thirty-five  dollars,  or  if  very  brilliant 
in  color  and  close  in  texture,  for  fifty  or  a  hundred 
dollars.  When  on  the  march  even,  the  Navajo 
woman  has  her  little  contrivance  for  weaving,  on 
the  mule  with  her,  or  across  her  shoulder  if  on 
foot,  and  in  five  minutes  after  the  halt  is 
sounded  she  sits  under  a  tree  weaving  away  as 
composedly  as  though  she  had  been  at  it  for 
hours.  The  loom  is  nothing  but  sticks  placed 
horizontally,  one  at  top,  two  at  bottom,  far 
enough  apart  to  accommodate  warp  of  the 
blanket's  length  or  breadth.  Between  these  the 
warp  is  stretched,  and  to  one  straps  are  attached 
to  throw  over  the  limb  of  a  tree.  At  the  bottom 
are  other  straps,  for  the  feet  to  operate  in  beating 
up  the  filling.  In  her  silent,  joyless,  persevering 
fashion  the  work  goes  steadily  on,  and  the  weaver 
is  satisfied  to  see  it  grow  at  a  rate  incalculably 
slow. 

A  sufficient  measure  of  civilization  is  the 
treatment  of  women,  and  among  Apaches  we 
find  the  deepest  degradation.  The  Pueblo  wives 
are  incomparably  better  off  than  those  of  the 


276  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

nomads.  The  contrast  between  them  and  their 
sisters  of  the  fairer  race  is  more  painful  than  that 
between  men  of  the  two  races.  I  have  seen 
young  hunters  with  stately  forms,  erect,  lithe  and 
sinewy,  and  one  warrior  who  might  have  been  a 
model  for  Uncas,  the  favorite  hero  of  our  early 
friend  Cooper. 

We  all  remember  the  anecdote  Gait  tells  of 
Benjamin  West.  When  in  Rome  his  friends 
agreed  that  the  Apollo  of  Vatican  should  be  the 
first  statue  shown  to  the  young  Philadelphia 
Quaker.  It  was  enclosed  in  a  case,  and  to  try 
the  effect  on  him  suddenly  the  keeper  threw  open 
the  doors.  "A  young  Mohawk  warrior,"  ex- 
claimed West. 

But  the  likeness  is  only  in  the  body.  The 
ideal  head  of  the  Apollo  with  its  clustering  locks, 
the  exquisite  sensitive  face  with  its  delicate 
molding  of  lip  and  chin,  the  Phidian  forehead  and 
nose,  are  in  highest  contrast  with  the  sensual, 
sluggish  lineaments  of  the  red  man. 

Among  the  various  tribes  there  is  a  dire  mono- 
tory,  and  in  nothing  are  they  more  alike  than  in  a 
lofty  scorn  of  work.  The  man  glories  in  his  lazi- 
ness, the  woman  exults  in  her  slavery.  I  have  seen 
an  Indian  try  a  heavy  lift  and  set  the  bag  of  corn 
down  again  with  a  "  Ugh !  squaw's  work."  If 
we  insinuate  he  should  do  the  little  hoeing  for 
their  scant  supply  of  beans  the  woman  resents 
the  idea.  "  Would  you  have  a  warrior  work  like 
a  squaw  ?  "  is  her  indignant  response  to  the  sug- 
gestion. 

I  once  saw  a  married  couple  trudging  home, 
if  their  cold,  smoky,  dirty  den  may  be  called  by 
that  dear  name.  The  husband,  perhaps  twenty- 
steps  in  advance  of  the  woman  who  bore  on  her 
back  a  bag  of  corn.  The  noble  red  man  (see  J. 
F.  Cooper),  waited  for  her  to  come  up  to  him, 
she  hastening  her  pace  as  she  saw  it.  Then  he 


The  Pimos.  277 

slung  nis  rifle  on  her  pack,  folded  his  arms 
across  his  noble  breast,  and  strode  forward  with 
easy  gliding  step,  in  untrammeled  dignity.  How 
I  longed  to  hand  that  noble  red  man  over  to  the 
mercies  of  a  woman's  rights  convention. 

The  husband  may  disfigure  or  insult  the  wife 
at  pleasure,  divorce  her  without  form  or  cere- 
mony by  a  mere  separation,  and  she  has  no  pro- 
tection or  appeal ;  sometimes  his  conduct  drives 
her  to  suicide.  In  divorce  it  is  the  unwritten 
law  of  the  wilderness  that  children  go  with  their 
mother.  Among  the  wandering  tribes  mother 
and  baby  are  not  divided  even  in  death.  A  mer- 
ciful barbarity  gives  one  blow  with  the  hatchet, 
and  the  little  one  rests  with  the  best  love  it  can 
know  on  earth.  They  have  few  children ;  four 
are  a  large  family,  twins  are  unknown,  nearly  all 
reach  maturity.  Among  the  wild  tribes  where 
polygamy  is  the  rule  it  is  not  a  cause  of  com- 
plaint among  the  women,  from  the  fact  that  it 
implies  a  division  of  labor,  and  the  latest  wife 
lords  it  over  her  predecessors.  Even  among  sav- 
ages there  is  no  love  like  the  last  love. 

The  Pimo  Indians  are  not  made  of  "  rose-red 
clay,"  they  are  dark  brown,  differing  in  com- 
plexion from  the  Appalachians  east  of  the  Rocky 
mountains  and  the  olive  hues  of  the  California 
tribes.  Historians  say  they  have  ever  been  the 
the  most  active  and  industrious  of  the  Pueblos ; 
still  that  does  not  imply  the  energy  and  activity 
of  the  white  race.  They  sit  for  hours  in  front 
of  their  huts,  motionless  as  a  group  of  petrifac- 
tions. In  a  mild  climate  their  wants  are  few  and 
simple,  and  a  little  of  this  world's  goods  obtained 
without  much  work  and  less  worry  is  sufficient 
for  the  calm  philosophers  who  despise  the  arts 
of  the  white  race  and  steadily  march  in  the  paths 
of  the  forefathers. 

I  must  not  leave  their  country  without  men- 


278  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

tion  of  the  wooing  of  the  young  Pimo  warrior. 
All  Pueblos  have  but  one  wife,  and  no  girl  is 
obliged  to  marry  against  her  will,  however  eligi- 
ble the  parents  may  consider  any  offer.  If  his 
bent  of  love  be  honorable,  his  purpose  marriage, 
Romeo  first  wins  over  the  parents  by  making 
them  presents,  such  delicacies  as  pumpkins, 
beans,  coyote  skins,  or  if  he  is  very  wealthy  a 
pony.  Then,  in  banged  locks  and  straggling 
braids  of  hair,  he  sits  at  the  door  of  the  lady  of 
his  choice  serenading  her  for  hours,  day  after 
day,  tooting  with  all  his  might  on  a  flute  of  cane, 
an  instrument  of  torture  with  four  holes  in  it. 
He  hides  himself  in  a  bush  and  like  the  nightin- 
gale "  sings  darkling."  Sometimes  Juliet  is  a 
coquette  and  takes  no  notice  of  the  tender 
demonstration,  leaving  him  to  keep  up  the  plain- 
tive, shrill  noise  till 

"  Night's  candles  are  burnt  out,  and  jocund  day 
Stands  tiptoe  on  the  misty  mountain  tops." 

If  no  notice  is  taken  of  the  appeal  there  is  no 
further  sign ;  he  may  hang  up  his  flute,  with  its 
bright  pencillings  and  gayly  tufted  fringes,  and 
there  is  no  mortification  in  the  rejection.  Should 
she  smile  on  his  suit  she  comes  out  of  the  coop- 
like  den  and  the  ceremony  is  ended.  Romeo 
takes  her  to  his  house  and  the  bride  is  at  home. 
If  he  is  a  man  of  moderate  means  the  house  is 
built  of  four  upright  stakes,  forked  at  one  end, 
driven  into  the  ground  ;  across  these  other  sticks 
are  laid  to  support  the  roof,  which  may  be  of 
corn  shucks,  or  straw  or  rushes.  If  he  is  am- 
bitious to  have  a  lasting,  palatial  mansion  it  will 
be  walled  round  with  stakes,  plastered  and  roofed 
with  mud.  An  opening  for  a  door  is  left  about 
three  feet  high  to  creep  in  at.  These  residences 
are  from  five  to  seven  feet  high,  so  one  cannot 
stand  upright  in  every  one.  Adjoining  the  wig- 
wam is  a  bower  of  boughs  open  on  all  sides ;  in 


The  Pimos.  279 

this  shady  lodge  are  the  few  potteries  in  which 
Juliet  does  the  cooking,  and  here  the  happy  pair 
sit  on  their  heels  when  at  rest,  and  Romeo 
smokes  while  she  grinds  the  corn  in  the  metate 
of  stone. 

It  is  expected  that  the  bridegroom  will  pny 
the  parents  all  his  means  admit  to  compensate 
them  for  the  loss  of  a  hand  in  the  cornfield.  The 
Indian  wife  never  hears  of  protoplasm,  equal 
suffrage,  social  science  and  the  like.  She  often 
builds  the  wigwam  after  Romeo  has  cut  the 
poles,  always  bears  them  on  her  shoulders  in  the 
march,  plows  the  fields  with  a  crooked  stick, 
raises  the  beans,  hoes  the  corn,  bakes  the  cakes, 
without  a  complaint.  If  her  beady,  black  eyes 
mark  his  coming  and  look  brighter  when  he 
comes  I  cannot  tell  why.  He  is  sullen  and  still, 
a  dusky  shape,  the  very  perfection  of  gloomy 
indifference.  Perhaps  if  he  eats  the  tortillas  with 
an  appetite  her  soul  is  glad  and  she  has  her 
reward.  If  she  is  content,  why  sow  the  seeds 
or  dissatisfaction  by  telling  her  she  is  a  beast  of 
burden  and  he  is  a  beast  of  prey  ? 

The  trip  through  the  Pimo  country  was  made 
memorable  by  my  first  bivouac.  'Twere  vain  to 
tell  thee  all ;  how  a  mule  drank  alkali  water, 
swelled  up  and  died  in  an  hour,  how  part  of  the 
party  had  to  push  forward  with  a  disabled  team, 
leaving  a  broken  wagon  and  luggage  to  wait  the 
relief,  and  how  a  long,  hot  day  brought  us  to  a 
government  station.  This  was  a  mud  shanty 
thatched  with  cedar  boughs  and  plastered  with 
clay.  The  edifice  was  divided  into  three  rooms, 
the  first  was  a  stable  where  a  gay  little  pony  was 
pacing  round  and  round  without  a  halter.  The 
next  was  the  guest  chamber.  As  I  approached, 
there  issued  from  it  a  fragrance,  the  triple  extract 
of  raw  hide,  burnt  bacon  and  old  pipe.  The 
appartment,  perhaps  sixteen  feet  square,  was 


?8o  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

without  door  or  window.  The  "  accommoda- 
tions "  were  a  mud  fireplace  in  the  corner  where 
one  might  make  coffee  and  fry  eggs,  and  a  pile 
of  sheepskins  on  which  the  visitor  might  spread 
his  blanket  and  sleep, — if  he  could.  The  cedar 
and  mud  roof  slanted  as  though  it  would  tumble 
down  any  minute.  The  clay  floor  was  unswept, 
the  walls  fringed  with  cobwebs  and  adorned  with 
strings  of  red  pepper,  saddles  and  bridles.  In 
one  corner  lay  bags  of  shelled  corn ;  on  a  swing- 
ing shelf  were  newspapers,  an  odd  volume  of 
Oliver  Twist  and  sporting  magazines.  The  third 
room  was  sacred  to  herdsmen  and  rancheros. 
The  keeper  of  this  lodge  in  a  vast  wilderness 
was  a  retired  minstrel,  and  his  photograph  as 
jolly  endman  broadly  smiled  upon  us,  dangling 
from  enormous  deer's  antlers  which  upheld  deco- 
rative art  in  lieu  of  a  mantel  piece.  I  took 
peaceable  possession  of  the  only  chair  and  my 
fellow  traveller  through  life's  journey  lolled  in 
luxurious  ease  on  the  end  of  a  candlebox,  while 
we  surveyed  the  "  accommodations."  There 
were  three  chromos  of  Evangeline  on  the  walls : 
presumably  the  peddler  closed  out  his  stock 
there.  One  picture  of  that  melancholy  maiden 
sitting  on  a  nameless  grave  is  depressing ;  two 
are  hardly  endurable ;  three  are  heart-breaking. 
I  gave  way  before  them  and  said,  "  We  will  try 
an  Indian  lodge  under  the  open  sky."  My  reso- 
lution made  the  idea  at  once  become  a  pleasant 
thought.  In  a  barren  country  the  householder 
a  pilgrim  and  a  stranger,  develops  a  versatile 
genius  second  only  to  that  of  Bernini  the  Floren- 
tine sculptor,  artist,  poet,  musician,  who  gave  an 
opera  in  Rome  where  he  built  the  theater,  in- 
vented the  engines,  cut  the  statues,  painted  the 
scenes,  wrote  the  comedy  and  composed  the 
music.  In  the  spirit  of  communism  which  per- 
vades the  Territories  I  rummaged  the  abandoned 


The  Pimos.  281 

baggage  and  found  blankets,  buffalo  robes,  a 
mattress,  one  attenuated  pillow  stuffed  with 
feathers  pretty  much  all  quill,  made  "  riant "  by 
a  pink  calico  case  ruffled  all  round.  No  sham 
about  that  pillow. 

A  clump  of  stunted  pines  was  the  chamber, 
carpeted  with  the  soft  needles  undisturbed  for 
ages.  A  Navajo  blanket  made  a  striped  roof, 
its  weight  a  security  against  puffs  of  wind  even 
if  we  had  not  fastened  it  with  strings  and  tent 
pins  driven  into  the  warm,  gravelly  sand.  The 
pretty  recess,  so  like  a  play-house,  had  a  fine 
charm ;  spicy  with  the  fresh  scent  of  the  pines, 
shadowed  by  a  great  rock,  the  pink  pillow 
looked  rather  lumpy  but  restful  and  inviting.  I 
felt  sure  there  were  pleasant  dreams,  or  better 
yet,  dreamless  sleep  in  the  unexpected  luxury. 

While  I  smoothed  its  tumbled  ruffles  the  gay 
troubadour  came  from  high  pastures  with  his 
herds  to  let  them  drink  at  the  precious  spring, 
and  then  fold  them  in  a  corral  made  of  stakes  of 
mezquit  wattled  with  cactus. 

The  grama  grass  on  which  they  feed  is 
described  in  the  books  as  incomparably  the  most 
nutritive  in  the  world,  which  may  account  for  the 
grand  development  of  bone  in  the  animals 
throughout  the  region.  All  the  wild  grasses  of 
the  country  are  peculiar  in  curing  themselves 
in  the  stalk.  The  grama  bears  no  flower,  shows 
no  seed,  but  seems  to  reproduce  itself  from  the 
roots  by  the  shooting  up  of  young,  green  and 
vigorous  spires,  which  are  at  first  inclosed  within 
the  sheaths  of  their  old  and  dried-up  predeces- 
sors, which  by  their  growth  they  split  and  cast 
to  earth,  themselves  filling  their  places.  The 
vast  region  swept  from  immemorial  ages  by  the 
Apaches  is  covered  with  this  sort  of  low,  mossy 
grass,  and  it  enables  those  most  savage  of  sav- 
ages to  make  their  wonderful  marches  with 


282  'Ihe  Land  of  the  Pueblo:. 

their  wiry  little  ponies,  which  endure  extra- 
ordinary fatigue  so  long  as  they  have  this  feed  in 
abundance,  and  are  allowed  to  crop  it  from 
native  pasturas. 

The  troubadour  who  kept  the  wayside  inn  was 
a  handsome  scamp,  a  captivating  runaway  from 
civilization,  calling  himself  John  Smith,  which  1 
am  sure  is  not  his  name.  He  apologized  for  the 
absence  of  his  cook  (who  had  no  existence  on 
earth),  and  in  festal  mood,  with  many  flour- 
ishes, insisted  on  displaying  his  own  skill  in  the 
culinary  science.  He  graduated  under  the  cele- 
brated Micawber  many  years  ago,  and  would  like 
nothing  better  than  a  "hot  supper  of  his  own 
getting  up." 

With  the  help  of  a  Mexican  peon,  he  deftly 
and  rapidly  concocted  and  served  in  the  Evange- 
line  apartment  various  poisons,  liquid  and  solid, 
spreading  them  on  a  pine  table  covered  with 
newspapers.  Conspicuous  among  the  dishes 
were  hot  death-balls,  with  lightning  zigzags  of 
deadly  drugs,  known  on  the  frontier  as  "  soddy 
biscuit."  Under  the  beguiling  name  of  spring 
lamb  we  had  paid  an  exhaustive  price  for  a  sec- 
tion  of  ancient  ram  which  might  have  battered 
the  walls  of  Babylon.  Fire  made  no  impression 
on  it,  and  the  chops  rebounded  under  the  teeth 
like  India-rubber.  However  we  had  the  usual 
reserve  of  crackers,  ham,  canned  fruit,  and  I 
drank  to  the  general  joy  of  the  whole  table  in  a 
glass  of  withered  lemonade.  The  gentlemen  ate 
with  cannibal  appetite,  and  so  far  from  dropping 
dead,  as  I  feared,  seemed  refreshed  by  the  reflec- 
tion. The  banquet  ended,  we  insisted  on  music 
from  the  obscured,  let  me  not  say  fallen,  star,  and 
the  banjo  was  brought  forth  from  its  case  under 
the  festive  board.  Brudder  Bones  had  a  rich 
and  delightful  voice,  and  we  listened  to  him  with 
unaffected  enjoyment.  One  by  one  the  herds- 


The  Pimos.  283 

men  came  by  leading  their  lean  and  thirsty  sheep, 
making  a  picturesque  spectacle  as  they  passed  to 
the  spring. 

Back  of  the  miserable  hut  stretched  a  plain, 
level  as  water,  three  miles  to  the  foot-hills ;  far 
beyond  were  the  Sierras,  purple  to  the  snow  line, 
then  a  shining  silver  chain.  Their  unspeakable 
beauty  haunts  me  still  like  some  enchanting  vis- 
ion in  which  I  beheld  a  new  heaven  and  a  new 
earth.  Beyond  the  bower  rose  a  heap  of  boul- 
ders, bare  except  for  the  tall  yucca's  cream-white 
blossoms  which  decked  them  in  bridal  bright- 
ness, and  a  species  of  night-blooming  cereus  that 
with  the  declining  day  unfolded  every  petal  and 
filled  the  air  with  a  fragrance  like  white  lilies. 
On  a  bench  in  front  of  the  hut  sat  a  prospector 
and  the  belated  travellers ;  lounging  on  blankets 
and  skins  were  half  a  dozen  soldiers,  a  Pueblo 
Indian,  a  negro  and  a  Mexican  peon.  The  banjo 
did  its  best  for  the  musician  occupying  the  can- 
dle box ;  I  was  enthroned  in  the  only  chair.  A 
mixed  company,  representative  of  the  border 
races. 

What  should  we  sing  but  "  Tenting  to-night 
boys,"  and  "  Oft  in  the  stilly  night,"  the  twilight 
song  with  its  tender  memories  of  the  lost  loves 
buried  many  a  year  ago  ?  Lastly,  in  the  solemn 
beauty  of  the  afterglow,  we  gave  "  John  Brown's 
Body "  with  a  rousing  chorus  in  honor  of  the 
graves  forever  green  and  glorious. 

A  line  of  crimson  lights  flamed  along  the 
mountain  peaks,  then  the  drop  curtain  of  violet 
and  pearl  gray  fell  softly  through  the  speckless 
sapphire  and  over  the  darkening  hills.  'Twas  time 
to  say  good-night ;  most  of  the  herdsmen  wrapped 
themselves  in  blankets  and  rolled  like  logs  on  the 
ground  ;  the  passive  ragged  peon  bowed  in  cour- 
teous grace  with  gently  spoken  adios,  and 
lay  against  the  side  of  the  hut,  his  delicate  face. 


284"  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 

upturned  to  the  sky.  Old  uncle  Ned  made  a 
tiny  fire  of  pine  cones  "  to  toas  my  feet,  missis," 
as  he  muffled  head  and  ears  in  an  army  coat  on 
which  a  shred  of  shoulder  strap  hinted  of  better 
days.  We,  too,  said  "  good-night"  Besides  the 
old  songs  my  ear  was  haunted  with  dim  aeolian 
soundings  mingling  an  evening  strain  from  the 
Koran : 

"  Have  we  not  given  you  the  earth  for  a  bed, 
And  made  you  husband  and  wife  ? 
And  given  you  sleep  for  rest, 
And  made  you  a  mantle  of  night?" 

But  I  could  not  sleep  thus  mantled  in  that 
Eden  bower.  The  air  was  so  electric  that  five 
lines  of  fire  followed  my  fingers  as  I  drew  them 
across  the  buffalo  robe.  I  was  in  that  state  known 
to  most  women  and  a  few  men  when  my  eyelids 
would  not  close.  I  felt  as  if  the  seven  doors  of 
the  enchanted  lantern  were  opened  and  I  could 
see  all  over  the  world.  There  was  nothing  to 
fear,  but  a  sense  of  strangeness  and  awe  held  me. 
The  spangled  arch  which  upholds  the  throne  of 
God, — its  splendor  robbed  me  of  my  rest; 
my  spirit  was  not  fitted  to  the  magnificent 
infinite  palace.  Of  the  exquisite  beauty  of  that 
balmy  semi-tropic  night  I  hardly  trust  myself  to 
speak.  Through  the  soft  perfumed  dusk,  through 
the  leafy  tent,  the  stars  glowed  resplendent. 
None  missing  there ;  the  lost  Pleiad  found  her 
sisters;  Aldebaran  shone  in  the  East;  Arcturus 
and  his  sons ;  Orion  belted  and  spurred  with  jew- 
els. The  blanket  slipped  from  its  fastenings  and 
there  was  no  curtaining  to  veil  the  far-off  mys- 
tery of  my  boundless  bed-room.  The  cool  night 
oreeze  fanned  my  face  as  I  watched  the  lofty 
spaces  so  solemn,  so  wondrous  fair.  I  had  often 
slept  in  the  ambulance  with  curtains  close-but- 
toned ;  that  was  a  room.  The  walls  of  this  apart- 
ment were  limitless. 


The  Pimos.  285 

Restlessly  turning  on  the  pink  pillow  I  thought 
of  eyes  that  are  looking  down,  not  up  at  the 
starry  hosts,  and  the  voice  now  beyond  them 
which  used  to  sing  to  the  air  of  "  Bonnie  Boon," 

'  Forever  and  forevermore, 
The  star,  the  star  of  Bethlehem." 

The  goats  and  sheep  were  at  rest,  the  hurt 
lamb  had  ceased  its  bleat,  the  light  in  the  ranche 
went  out.  In  the  stilly  night  silence  all,  save  the 
low  wind  soughing  in  the  pines  making  midnight 
hush  the  deeper.  The  long  howl  of  a  dog  in  the 
distance.  Was  he  barking  at  the  silver  boat  i  n 
the  blue  bay  overhead  ?  What  sailors  manned 
that  fairy  craft  ?  Did  they  understand  the  mys- 
teries and  could  they  answer  my  weary  question- 
ings ?  What  saw  they  in  the  unfathomable  depths  ? 
and  what  meant  that  signal  shot  from  the  slender 
bow  across  the  trackless  blue,  dropping  spark- 
les of  fire  through  the  dusk  ? 

Good  night,  Good  night! 


THE   END. 


ili 


